The Beachgoer

The Beachgoer

No one hears the sea anymore,
its necessary tides and undertows
pulling sand from the shore, depositing
bits of coral. I love this beach,
especially the parts that blind understanding.
A roar speaks to the weary,
to those who listen, always calling
them home to deep, rocking spells,
where fish swim in accustomed darkness.
Sometimes I wish I could see what
only my ears can pick up on. The fury
of the ocean spends eternity arriving,
hiccuping back forever. I must hold onto
a thought that electrocutes me like an eel,
a notion of the whole world working together
with me. Black manta rays come up
from the depths with names written
on their fins. All that eats and sleeps
comes here ragged, tired beyond anyone's
attempt to believe life. A concert
washes ashore, a hoard no one
can decipher.