2 GOD SPEAKS AT PESCADERO BEACH
Out of an urge more felt than known, I have come
Again to that edge where the surf reverberates
With primal sound, a monotone with words
Unformed. The path that whitens where I step
Is littered: polyps and beer cans, rotten fruit,
And shells, abandoned forms of those who knew
The sea. The dogs are off and running, led
By the light, elusive gulls, and I am left
Among the relies where the search begins.
Amid this jetsam of a winter sun
Thought leaps beyond the wrangling gulls, recalls
A silence far more full and more alive,
As if one running ran beyond the earth:
"In the solitude of the unbegun, unknown,
Unknowing, unbegotten yet, you were
The frozen face of possibility.
Until the latent will to act released
You to the fluid fate of time, and you
Became the forms of what you knew.
Fragmented, last among the manifold, knowing
A part, forgetful of the whole, you ran
A labyrinth of pain, impelled by currents
Working to the sea . . ."
That voice is drowned within the roar that holds
Me here among the shells and racing dogs.
This voice is mute; that voice was like a chord
Of breath articulated into song
In which each note resolved into all sound.
Far out to sea, horizon closes down:
Within this shell I make my way. Some say
This ocean's clasp is sweet — but cold, I think.
The sea I seek has quite another feel,
More like a home than this diluvian bed.
There dissolution is release into,
Not only from — where, like a hermit crab,
I'll shed this form, returning, conscious, one.
Meanwhile, the dogs, outwitted by the gulls,
Fetch driftwood from the shallows. Further out
And down, run creatures at a tideless depth
Where the only light is a lure to a waiting mouth.
Dissolved in dream, the mind brings down to this place
Imaginations of another shore
Where children, dogs and men play laughingly
Among the curiosities of time,
And where the sea whispers its secrets to them,
Warms them in a Caribbean breath.