if i am all that is outside of me;
who i frequent
who i circumambulate
then i will make my way by the lake, river
the ocean.
the ocean
where i painted all these poems
instead of hiding inside,
i drove to the end of the road in the cold rain, moved across
dunes toward driftwood and the tidal waves
in nothing but wind
to touch the salt as a ritual to watch the ocean make the bed
again and again, i watch time move like a life.
i hold in my hands. my life, painting light
set and sigh
on the cotton i transform into paper
from water, screen, all those squares,
air, pressure, walking, pressing, motion, breath, patience,
with my hands
so i can collect gestures before me, paint the ocean not by representation but in attention of flashes, the breaks, the wake.
the passing by and the something underneath,
something – still – in the cycles, gathered, noticed.
i studied under the waves enough that i began
dreaming about them at night sometimes.
once i sang to the ocean as an offering,
ocean creatures swam toward and left when they wanted
and i just went on i believe i was ..defending with my heart and soul
