The Ghost of Bellows Beach

I. Rushing ocean, rushing Forward, and tell me Where my name Began. Where the sand became A divide, A father a friend, A partner in suffering Bleeding together Through a sad, sorry Kitchen in a cabin On the beach Where the water Rushes, rushes towards My mother, desperate And proud and I the gatherer, The obedient soldier Under the sun, the Blinding, pounding, Honking of steel and Cemented lanes in A hot December Noon. Time rushes on With salt and sorrow And I gather the moments In fermented ink. And page another night. The shunting of sadness The refusal of fright Through this rush Of ocean, death, And roaming hope. A cause without a wagon. Love without a station. II. And there was Truth in the light Beyond the trees And above the sand. There was love pacifying, but, no, Illuminating. So imagine His vast and mysterious Etch-a-sketch--shaking! It is always the thumping, shaking beat that calls for grace. We have no name. We are the ocean. We are the sand. We are the divide that was once the sand That spots grace, in the Final Desperate Hour, Just above the beach And beyond the dark, Flickering wood. III. And the sound that you make Is different than the sound that I make The light through the flickering wood The immortal Edge of God Spoken to me from a different channel Of sense that was given to you Tensed and alone Bloated and confused Living rooms and beaches Televisions and blood-piercing moons We came to gather We came to gather We came to gather a grace of a love-acquired.