Aug 122011
 
female
		in her largesse
				unfinished in her striving
yet sure, assured, assuring
		wave upon wave
				as wave upon wave
she comes on--
		no mere dram of the divine
				but drowning gallons
of godhood, every day:
		action upon action
multiform-in-unity
she throws garbage
		all day every day
				at the immaculate beach!
Blue pails, red shovels
		tarballs coughed up--
				wanderlust wastage
shoved home from the sea;
		she is no respecter
				of persons or property.
What shards we have for her
		come back softened and frosted
				all their brightness now
turned inward
		as cathedral glass can do
				haunting darkened pews.
What has she shown them?
		Themselves
				a glorious wastage of light
tumbled in a green breast
		whose furious love
				undoes them.
See how they fail
		shape after shape thrown in
				to change her.
The sea allows
		no options.
				Love her and submit
until you yourself are
		shapeless as seaweed--
				survive if you will
by kissing her hem,
		an appurtenance to her
				permanence.
The sea! a girl
		eternal as all girls are,
				wall upon wall
she curls at her edges 
		smilelike or sneerlike, a face
				that is always, to us,
indifferent.
		Lay your naked keel
				upon her fertile flank
or sail unknown regions 
		swelling between her breasts
				in trumpeting discovery!
Always, you will be
		flotsam to her surfaces
				glassy and drenching,
an appurtenance to her vivid is
		floating fathomless as scum unless
				by your death you may
a moment
		beautify her majesty.
				The ageless exuberance
of the sea!
		Beached, I observe
				nothing.
Trash comes to me
		in the skittering surf
				utterly transformed!
I must surrender, I must love
		this morning, at once, before
				my nerve fails
and my survival mind reminds me
		not to kiss too deeply
				her salty mouth.
Insatiably
		I want to kiss you,
				dying of thirst
as I drink, drink
		from your polluted brim!
				But the sea is not mine,
she is her own
		insatiably.
				No embrace, however loose,
may manacle her manyness,
		no arms, however loving,
				can grasp what she is
or how she is
		or anything
				in the sessions of her sighing.
Only surrender, surrender,
		can have any part
				of the surge and lapse
that arrives
		dissolving at my feet.
				Immodest, immeasurable
the motion of the sea whose only
		partner in the dance
				invisibly
is the stone sea of the moon
		tide upon tide
				they pull and they press
until whitecaps witness
		the consummation and breakage
				of their betrothal.
To this ceremony
		we may only bring
				everything, may only
throw everything away
		again and again,
				effectless flowers
tossed into the surf!
		The bouquets adding nothing
				to the bride's beauty.
A child on a rock,
		a stranger to the dance
				as yet,
like a moron is crying
		"O, o, o"
				again and again
wordlessly
		to pass the time.
				And yet, what has he lost?
This is the ogre
		and the image of the ogre
				that lives in all men wordlessly.
Men can create, truly,
		nothing
				and we are, truly,
nothing.
		But in our anger, roused,
				we make ourselves tall,
stalwart and ostrichlike
		in a pretense of bravery
				to outface the eternal
grind and grit of the sea
		who loves us not--
				our ugly heads 
tucked in the sand.
This is all men
		and many women too,
				though fewer.
The ogre groans
		to know his true stature
				miniscule before the sea.
"O, o, o, o."
		After this wreckage of hopes
				what remains?
Is love possible?
		Can an ogre even know love?
				What, after all, remains?
If something persists
		if a possible love persists
				then it is not
the love an ogre imagines--
		it is not a love that receives
				anything at all.
It is, if it is
		a love like that which prayer opens
				to us,
giving over all
		to the suck and agony
				of this great wetness.
Throw yourself in!  you pray.
		Surrender to the dazzle
				hold back nothing
no particle of all you have 
		pretended
				to be yourself.
Drown in the dazzle, if you must.
		There is only the pulse
				push and wash
of the sea.
		Only her eternal grinding
				and gnashing
persuades one of either
		heaven or hell.
				Only she may tell
which,--and whichever it is
		we may only love.
				Having given all,
we have given up nothing.
		Our shards
				in her embrace
are not possessed untouched
		but transformed
				smoothed and redeemed
released from our intentions
		to manifest what
				we could not have 
imagined.

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