They brush,
just brush up against,
in currents, drawn close,
and enter inside
my soft tender places
and I think they’ve found
their way there, by choice
and thus become company,
constant companions…

when, well
really they merely
are come here at random…
in currents.

I try
to latch on and hold
what just isn’t there
and then there are thrashings,
and pushings away…
and silences,

which I
despise even more,
with utter abhorrence
and horrified hushéd
held breath and no oxygen.

The lesson must then
be learned once again,
that lesson I’ve learned
again and again

the lesson that it,
it is always again
and never at last,
no, it’s never at last.

Eventually, yes,
I can stick with
the smart strategy
of the open hand
letting goodness  just flow

and when
those who float there
on the aimless swift tides
wash in?  Simply flow
and when they wash out,
when on waters they go,
well there is nothing else
that happens to currents
and what’s in them…no.

How many
waves have these rocks
been washed in to date?
Each one in shape
and form, like, and yet
different and rolling and
rushing and coming and

then boom!! and boom!!
and thunder and boom!!

And then
shatter-spray…splash!
and then?  There’s just water
(no wave), withdraw…and
recede and return…and
remain, waiting wet
for the next…
and the next…
and the next…

til the
rock finally wears down
in ever-come waves
and gives up the ghost
(holy and profane)
and rejoins the sand
(the dust of the heart
of the earth hung in space)

midst the
stars in the dark
and the songs in the spaces
and heaven awaiting.