And fringes moving. All the wounds of the past
Lay exposed, unresolved. Rose fills the ebb
Wet as a salve, as the thoughts of the earth
Retreat to further swirls, line to line,
Positions conclude, conclusions waver,
Variations emerge. The past is dissolved
As if it is saved in the endless creation,
Not needing to be recalled.
The figures on the beach only know
They must heal, so they walk out into
The orange water fire, until the images
Pinned to their minds and called the real
Peel away like scrapbook yellow
In the gold of a new day, not yet born
Though thoughts of it wrinkle across the waves
Like a low sonar drone, that may be
A song as a moan, a poem as spoken
Instruction. But the ocean doesn't teach
As much as it leaves enough notes to steal.
Notes of blue, notes of orange, ever
Blending, never one, forever vying
But always rising as a sum beyond parts,
Even as the greys have turned to green,
In this in-between, where the drop of sun
Purifies the colors. The hues start to bend
Beyond any curve, at a frequency
That no longer serves — except as beauty,
Always beauty, what doesn't end.
