At the shore

At the shore


What this great gray being—
Here by the water it speaks without
cease or concern for who might or might not
be listening —whether this ocean voice is only the dream
music of a damaged child
or the the larger anthem of one race of angels —or another.

Here it might be effortless to believe —heroic to doubt
at that being’s side —the enormous matter
such, that we need it to be
divine and with purpose —with meaning.

There are exhausted words in this language
of light —of aching and homage
—of the ocean sound and the seabird’s
soaring —loneliness.

Even as they are said and sorry —these words
—I know the same sad declination. I know the salt wind
I am fallen through and the incessent
heedless majesty —the terrible
empty and enormous matter
of the sea.

There at the shore and away
from blithe distraction
I confront this truth —perhaps.

Or I might well be merely entertaining
a question—

Here at the shore,
as two birds drift above me,
nearly motionless
in the misty air,
perhaps we only share
the empty mind —of God.





.