The sea—

at the lip of which
I sink,
slow
silly
my toes in sucking
black sand perch
the heavy surf swell tunneling
past my ankles

–still hasn’t made up its mind.

The notion of forward
is full, steam, ahead!
quick—quick–quicker
get there
dammit!
get there!

Then:
I feel in my toes
the bugle sound—

Retreat! Retreat!

My knees lurch
barrel waves come from all sides:
I stand, flexed still
from left and right
the edges clash
against my shins
whoosh up
sea water clean to my brow.

I am stood, squelched, clashed
in the great cosmic buckle;
hard wave edges
fall soft
between my toes,
the waves, from all points of the needle,
bound
for the sake of movement
the goal interaction and great leaps
of dancing,
to get there—get where?
and just as soon retreat.

It’s dangerous, willful:
two easy words for
“uncontrollable.”

Should I be Sea Mother,
I should be proud.
My child, untamed,
untethered
dimensionless,
her forward motion simply
motion at all—
a freedom which cleaves
deep
the heavy rocks.

 

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