sand we really cannot see
pero yo soy el tigre; es un fuego que me consume, pero yo soy el fuego
—Jorge Luis Borges
we are on a beach I wish to call black: I want black sand, a slight tint
of magenta and an overcast night—with the moon curtained by clouds.
though this sand is gently white, you still in utter darkness walk to me. swim to me.
we are moving towards our real goal: to be unaware of the water.
as it merges always around us. native to us. we don’t know.
beaches have become so iconic to people, sources of peace, mixed in
with sunshine and dolphins but the real life of oceans is brutal, you
know that well. it is magisterial, non-stop, no apology for the Florida
thunderstorm shelved out the easterly coast on a July night and here
we are, in cloud-cast gravitas of lack of light, lack of sight with a save
of heat lightning demonstrating the narrow passage and jumping waves
every paper thing in society tells us to love more,
but if we did it would be here, away, apart, and no
social circle would gain any single benefit. malice
is not the way out but the damage of the way in.
the sand we cannot really see except in these lightning instances is
white. glossy, even, perfect. and its claim is vast. the ocean though
owns it as it owns us all. under. fire over. tiger under. air to ignite,
to breath, to bring your love before me but water to return us latein the night.
again. & over again. we don't end. bodies connected
darkness abounding before a storm as big as every captain's widest tale
of what storms become after a week at sea, compass rose none to record
our fate before this binding ocean drawn around glimpse of coastline.