I want to love the waters
when the sunset glints
and it turns a quantum
orange-pink-blue
I want to love the sea
when its waves toss
my little rowboat and
split its side. I turn overboard.
Can't  I love these waters
Can't I love this sea
When the ocean is my life
And the victim is me?

I've come up with
come up with a million
a million excuses.
But the thing is I
thing is I don't thi—
I don't think you'd under—
you'd understand
even if I
even if I tried.
Tried to explain. Because I
because I couldn't possibly
possibly form these thoughts
these thoughts into con—
into concrete sentences
even if I
even if I tried.
Because they're mindlessly
mindlessly floating
in the muck
that you and I both
both know is
my mind.

Once upon a midnight hour,
before I heard his name,
all undead, wordless speech
he cried, and knew no shame.
Now relentless, now so calm,
pressing evermore:
“Go and come, as you wish,
but then return to shore.”

Moon shall set, Sun shall rise
pink clouds turn to gray.
How constant is his love for me;
so changing is the day!
Though my body leave him now,
my heart will ever stay.
Until at last, beside the waves,
forever, I shall lay.

Ocean, ah, the Ocean,
my ever-turning Sea,
mostly violent company
but tenderer with me.
Voluptuous and mirthful,
at every break of dawn,
indulges yearning pleas
and sings of loves forgone.

Ocean, ah, my Ocean,
comely as blustery,
spare me not the crushing waves
of untamed amity.
Be with me tomorrow
as yesterday, as now;
ever my Tumultuous Friend,
say this as a vow —
Ocean, ah, my Ocean,
for thus to me art thou.

He lifts a well-turned wrist
Above their dismal heads;
He sings a tune and in their midst
His song puts them to bed.
       And there he goes, a-laughing
Across the meadows clear,
Among the forests old,
He travels where and there and here
For years and years untold.
       And there he goes, a-laughing
Once he found a Lady,
In river-water clad;
Under boughs and willows shady
The best of lives they had.
       And there they go, a-laughing

Separate instances of many mistakes made when sleep was nye,
when the wanderings of the mind veer off beaten paths
and of dangerous outcomes one is no longer shy,
upon my life their dark shadow casts.

And I am left to speculate what graces I have lost along with
innocence and that good ignorance scorned by Eve,
leaving my mouth coated with the cloying pith
of that fruit she was suffered to thieve.

Once clear, the skies, or’come by ashen mists
descend upon the land with growing doom.
Congealed, it throbs — the noxious smog persists,
wrapping the earth in its indulgent tomb.

The smoke throughout, in every guarded space,
from city, home, and table, down to cot,
until it saturates us whole. No place
is left unswayed: and thus we find all naught.

It stains the eye, the nose, it coats the tongue,
it spills into the veins of one’s own heart.
Our faces that appear like tried men hung
now only bleak despair can clear impart.

We sought a savior. Then, with all and none,
we sacrificed on altars made of stone.
We prayed to stars and moon and languid sun;
we spilt our blood, burnt bread, and laid down prone.

Our efforts still brought nothing. Just the same
impassive, tumorous, affront of cloud,
consuming men’s minds ‘til alone in name
could here the virtue Wisdom be endowed.