The ocean, for all we know, could keep on coming,
Commenting, as all that passes disappears,
Its sweet negation, so what is absent can seem real
In the sound of water splashing, like an answer
To the questions that we never knew to ask,
That still persist, in the voiceless will of wind.
We could say it finds itself, as it touches,
Again and again, on the shore, and that the shape
Of its argument never changes,
Though the layers unpeel in ever varying
Courses, of impenetrable transparence,
As if solving the most inexhaustible mysteries.
We can even sway along ‘til it dissolves in a spray
That suggests, in the raise of its valence,
The emergence of wings from an obscure violence,
But there’s only the moon, that stands between
Knowing and our will, the only truth worth pursuing:
To banish the thing that could make us wrong.
