Ocean

Write and rewrite and rewrite [ocean] a grey width that dazzles in pools when sun casts between cloud, then shadows again as if a vast creature loomed just below, only in an hour turns dark green of  a forest crown or sapphire if sky opens out for the day and wind stays its presence, unlike yesterday afternoon when zigzags bristled the width eyes could reach, when hail sheered waves, lapsing into cold torrents for hours, where all was outlines again of grey headlands, bleak horizon, the housetop all sound tones of sweeping rain as ocean whites and rewhites and rewhites.

Ocean (January)

Purpose-made, our skull is the only place wherein consciousness awakes, exercises, changes, knows, and rests. Round and hard like the Earth it mimics, alone our skull is some special planet, though for some, seen one seen them all. Oceanic fertility is our truth, every month’s January when we wake from sleep, our senses returning to duty, renewed and amazed; our skull, the vital carrier. Our dreams are oceanic, unconscious head drifting out into depths of ancient existence. Day is wakeful relief from such soup. Tide out, watchful behind two perfect sockets, we enjoy the littoral of everything sun keeps alive.