Beyond myself my sea sleeps, strange
Beyond myself my sea sleeps, strange.
It will howl and will call with palms of wind, almost tender.
Sad, forgotten, blue of child, still bleeding.
The days pass, the hands dry like seashells.
The body yields, alive like a wood that burns with cold.
Life grinds me down, hours fall like iron filings.
And yet I find the sea within me, light that sings.
Its beauty, salt of honey, binds itself to eyelids.
It sings me waves that I have never turned back.
Its silence howls, like a wolf of glass in wet desert.
I am the blind lighthouse, illuminating the shiny darkness from blood.
I grow anchors of air, binding the ribs to the empty sky.
The sea within me is liquid sand, a clock burned by frost.
I anoint my longing with the white rust of remembrance.
As I pass, I become sea: the emptiness embraces me.
Paradox: I am the water that burns and the fire that flows.
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