by John Newman |
 Even before the roosting pelicans have unshouldered their bills and
necks in arched madonna. Before the first rhuemy gulls swoop the sand
powdered with fine dark and the eastern sky hemorrages among the clotted
clouds, we are on the water. Glidng through the slick eel grass, the
jellybean kelp bladders and the stinging slap of waves. Lips set and
wetted in bloodwarm brine. The blank face of a sinking moon stands over
us, obscured by clouds and ideas. The sea waves, and wants, and swells
for the moon. It is the way with water... and its children.
Dark beasts rise from the waving widerness of kelp, from the well of
feeling that sinks to the bottom of the whole dizzy architecture of sea
and squirming life, from the sink of fear and the grim glitter of fear's
joy and from places unknown to us. Sleepers in a brief dream of life.
And from our own dream we watch them rush past and think we understand,
or pretend we don't.
We crawl stalking, one by one, seeking delicate equilibrium and rolling
water communion with the roaring blind and tormented by unsatisfied
desire, surge, light and perfect liquid curves, to stand the edge of the
abyss.
Breathless, voiceless, across the flaming ocean bed.
The sea blossoms white roses and iron trees sprout along the shore.
The void collapses on the earth and scatters its brittle chips light
like furtive insects and all the clockwork machinery of God chucks,
crashes and crumbles. The wind crosses four thousand miles of ocean for
the cry of a single gull, and four billion years of becoming leaps like
wooden lambs into the morning night.
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