As rivers, flowing down, become indistinguishable on reaching the sea by giving up their names and forms, so also the illumined soul

A winter’s day in August
dark overcast & damp
flailing about in the murdered waves

How can we not be dark & light & blank
98 percent of the time?

Bells in the tide all the way from The Odyssey
to the latest issue of Surfer’s Journal
& back again

                              a circular pattern

always somehow reassuring

              erodes even the heavy duty concrete seawall
in time nothng more than sand in your sneakers

              a dusty trace of haze in an otherwise
                              empty motel swimming pool

catching a pale neon glow off the
              Upanishads like a puff of smoke