The movement of wind or tide is time shifting light
away from arid truth beyond; not barren, not wasteland yet,
just peopled by abacus and time machines diamond rough or
dust.
I don’t much care if they do announce tic life on Venus
as all tenderness has collected here in sparkle ripples
so bright, eyes would sting if put to words or music.
Every boat is blue mammal today; we are not at sea
nor dolphins at play, these are not our shoreline salt lines,
tear stinglings missing out on so much beauty in the blur.
We are riding the slow gold crest swirl of each sweet
ripple.
Soft water surfers. Blue prows gliding through
the slip easy, the frowns of barnacles beneath
breezing the rip too. This topside’s long breath
of back and forth shifting light is meditation
on wings turned wet feathered lung – shorter lines,
calling for the span of airing cormorant
in a strong September sun.