Our route grew like
over the sea granite
as we moved across the rocks and sand with the
sweep of centuries.
You spoke of beauty
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:
“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
a horse brought up short
and foaming to go on
raging and halt at her edges
for hers is an endless thirst
Oh to loose her from stable
to rain beauty like sparks
across the widower plains
How better to spend a day at the beach than with a
beautiful girl, a bitter past, and apocalypse.