The spill-out beneath a cathedral sky to the glow subscribed

                                                “who floats
                                                in what, thus
                                                lends it di-
                                                rection”
                                                                  ―Chas. Olson

Early morning drizzle of mist on the beach road―a car washing by makes the sound of a deepsea vacuum taking me back to similar mornings in Venice kneeling on my board below the pier―primordial murmurs of ocean & bubble sounds whispered in the hush of foam―the rolling swell gurgling in the throat of Time―& I’m not sure but deep blue, end-of-the-spectrum deep, purling iridescent milk-fed steel.   Everything breathing & fog-lit, expectant, as if any minute now―& drenched in sea-spun velvet―

Somewhere in that damp repository singing I Shall Be Released to solitary bird-notes or piercing cry of gull out of sudden unseen certainty―as the sun now lifts & thins out the mist, flattening it into a high subliminal haze that will filter the incoming downward slant of light & warmth―the magic variegated iridescence on the surface of the water shifts to winking bejeweled sparkle

Now thin creaking Judean palm trees leaning out over the pavement into the fragrant ocean-flavored breeze where I stoop to gather like Ishmael greeting the eucalyptus alleyway with devout footwork & voodoo Buddhist acceptance falling between shadows that scatter & dance―the morning thus a mere reflection, a quick glance back over your shoulder, rippling diaphanous in dust of blue ocean light