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.
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