poetry, The Uncollected Poems

Ocean

Days go by and I do not understand a word you say,
as your waves rise and lower upon the bed.
I think maybe I should have begun to understand;
but the words you speak are the notes of a song
sung many generations ago in a language
handed down only in etched stone.
The melody of your voice is simple but steady
and who can not admire the grace of step,
the giving of skin,
as you roll across sea-oats and shell beds.
The droplets of sweat that form and glisten
are both wet and salty to the touch of the tongue.
Nevertheless,
I am afraid as all men probably are,
apprehensive
as I attempt to swim to the core of your soul,
that you would storm and I drown.
So I build walls of rock and concrete upon the sands
to try to keep you at bay.
And only visit you when your waters are calm.
But this doesn’t work, a single tone from you
would shatter every window in my house.
So I have chosen the only solution:
to camp out upon the shell beds in your arms
under the stars
and wait and listen for a reply,
for you to instruct me how to fathom your love.

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