impressions left on sand

***

Mostly we sit, sandy down, and do not a thing,

(as build and tumble tidal walls, and promptly

crumble sisyphusianly) and call peaceful

the clamor, crying out the waving wails.

False the faulty frustrated seas–

seasoned sodiumed up, too bitter to be of much use

except to carry us to some other else

or to sit idly beside

[eyes closed]

close enough to be glad

to be not submerged

in cold weary deep.

 

Yet behind these bulbs, as by

squinting squeezing scrunching closed

i try to shut out the bigness of earth–

still within are

flows more violet, violent blue

(and He could have put them anywhere,

and anything else there)

than any they have seen

when wide open

***