Portside, under heaven, I am spoonfed skyloads 
I have a mouth full of clouds the color of rainbows 

Guided by Sirius and this rose-pink light 
and this sky-blue ice-like surface of the sea 
near the shoulder of the shore I see wet glass 
mirror sunset clouds in a scintillating taffeta sheen 
that floats and rolls into swell-curl-crash-spray-foam 
churning back into white, into mist, into eternity... 
So lovely and yet so like a violent machine 
slapping the hardness of rocks 
grinding down the world to sand. 

The mouth of the river blows into the sea 
which itself is almost always all mouth 
spitting the surfers back to shore 
slurping and sucking from here to China 
like a noisy straw, licking the sand 
as if to wipe clean memory's debris. 

Persuaded by some mysterious 
necessity of magnets these waves 
reel and lap at my elbows 
like a hungry dog. 
 

Through foghorn moan and silver mist 
this hull groans out another alphabet 
of my soul--on luminescent tides 
in the highs and lows 
of a softly subliminal 
metronome watercolor 
symphony of moments. 

A windward genuflection: 
A sudden gust-- 

This sounding 
need not be 
draped 
in dreams. 

Grace Millennium Home
Sojourn Archives

Copyright © 1997 Sojourn Magazine. (All Rights Reserved)