nothing but this

in the afternoon light i walk past the fractured greens that appear mirrored below the
dock. bleary pictures go unnoticed as charts and gas levels are checked, gear, food and
beer are stowed. the anticipation of spending hours offshore is wide and measurable.
tide fills and spills over eel grass and mud, driftwood, bent, broken, knows
no other path, only the urging of the sea. it'll pull you with it if you let it.

i will let it. even if i don't, it can't be stopped.

the glint, the way over repeating wavelets, where you go where
you want to go, dark, unseen, plunging straight and deep and sharp,
water purled in halves, fourths, eighths, sixteenths, a formula
that confronts what is known and leaves the unknown for who knows
who to dissect. will people always live in separate universes? will they always be

divided?

the wind grabs, the waves demand. before i know it, what was once

part of my world is lifted, toppled

blown into the sheen, murk, and mold of forgotten sneakers,
doorknobs, bottle caps, favorite hats, cellophane, wire, mesh, nylon
rope, fenders, bumpers, bud light cans, lampshades, pieces of rubbermaid,
shopping carts and baseball caps, all sunk, saturated, slurried
caught between this place and that. above

my head the ceiling of light is so bright i feel it will blind me
if i rise too quickly; bubbles, tiny fish, plankton float
away, up and up, cutting a swath of graceful motion
through the water. i cough, i sputter; my eyes sting.
now i've been there, now i know.

make a note in the book of restless days and salt:
what we call life is what we've come back from,
scathed, our eyes pried wide open,
unsighted no longer.