I have been pulling at the world all my life, dragging it like the tide out and in
directions determined by the reality of my regard. Hollow
eyes in a cliff or friendly sheen on the surface
of the water. But these waters his strokes
haunt with a spirit that might
imagine itself in me—alive in color, carousing in motion, moody in the tilts of weather,
if I am still. I am still at the base of these cliffs, tied to a world of spin
and wind. In, then, is the way to see spirit,
swallow its shallow blue,
drink its deep green
and hear the soft sweeping it makes lapping this leg of beach.