The Tide


The tide of time

doesn’t answer

except for all the shells.



The water rises in its own language.

It takes the words out of your mouth.

It will take the bones out of your body’s closet

and scatter them among the pebbles.



The spent ocean dries off

the land’s edges.

The spent earth fills the ocean’s jars.

The ocean will still be your tired king

when all the mothering waters have gone.



You, like a gull, rise.

You, like a stone, dive.

You, like the sun, descend

Again and again and again.



The sea in your head

is speaking

The sea in your bones

is looking across the ocean.

The language waits-

the language of water.





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