Eating the Sea With Lunch
This mechanical endless dumping, the combing of water
through pebble bank, sitting on the shore in the spray,
listening to the dredge that follows every dump
is like having my hair brushed firmly,
each stroke from the roots; brushing out tangles,
debris, bits of leaf, seaweed, feather,
brushing from the roots, brushing through my head,
combing though me as if my atoms were countless round stones.
Water combing through them, through me, washing , rearranging
particles, with a thunderous, a marvellous knocking of rock
on rock and drawing of water to wave.
I am eating sandwiches at the sea's edge, biting salt air,
swallowing the motion of waves as they motion through me;
eating the sea with lunch and it is consuming me.
