Ocean, if you somehow happened to give, a measure, a mature, a fruit
of your endowments and demolitions, into my hand,
I would pick your far away rest, your form of steel,
your watchful spaces of air and darkness,
and the intensity of your white tongue,
that smashs and topples columns,
breaking them down to your legitimate purity.
Not the last breaker, substantial with brine,
that roars coastal, and creates
the quiet of sand, that encompasses the world,
but the inward spaces of force,
the bare intensity of the waters,
the immoveable isolation, overflowing with lives.
It is Time maybe, or the vessel filled
with all movement, unadulterated Oneness,
that passing can't contact, the instinctive green
of devouring totality.
Only a salt kiss stays of the suffocated arm,
that lifts a shower: a sticky scent,
of the sodden bloom, is left,
from the assortments of men. Your energies
form, in a stream that isn't spent,
form, in withdraw into silence.
The falling wave,
arch of character, shattering feathers,
is just spume when it clears,
and comes back to its source, unconsumed.
Your entire power sets out toward its origin.
The husks that your heap threshes,
are just the pounded, looted, deliveries,
that your demonstration of wealth expelled,
all those that take life from your branches.
Your frame reaches out past breakers,
vibrant, and musical, similar to the chest, cloaking
a single being, and its breathings,
that lift into the substance of light,
plains raised above waves,
forming the stripped surface of earth.
You fill your actual self with your substance.
Your floods bend with silence.
The vessel trembles with your salt and sweetness,
the widespread natural hollow of waters,
and nothing is lost from you, as it is
from the devastate hole, or the inlet of a hill,
those void statures, signs, scars,
guarding the injured air.
Your petals throbbing against the Earth,
trembling your submarine harvests,
your threat thickening the smooth swell,
with throbs and swarming of schools,
and just the string of the net raises
the dead lightning of fish-scale,
one injured millimeter, in the space
of your precious stone completeness.
