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.