brought up short

Our route grew like
                    grass
                          over the sea granite
as we moved across the rocks and sand with the
sweep of centuries.

You spoke of beauty
                    simply
taking the fabric between finger and thumb and I
began to warily discourse, rabbinical as I am able, on
the topic that rests like an explosive behind my heart.

     I thought: the edge of the ocean is her bridal veil.
White lace on the face of the waves.

     And I thought: or a horse brought up short and
foaming to go on.

We may be made known to each other. The imperfect
sphere of our perception may be passed from my
hand to yours. We may pronounce in chorus:

     “Yes.”
     “The ocean is beautiful.”

                                 But I am plainsman born
                                   an inheritor of ruins
                            
                                      The conduit of awe
                                    the ennobling terror
                           gone from there to its ghetto

     the ocean
     a horse brought up short
     and foaming to go on
     raging and halt at her edges
     for hers is an endless thirst
          to wed
               to range
                       to run.

                             Oh to loose her from stable
                              to rain beauty like sparks
                               across the widower plains
                                         across Kansas--

How better to spend a day at the beach than with a
beautiful girl, a bitter past, and apocalypse.