||[May. 4th, 2005|06:13 pm]
Look how they mill about
out there like a crowd of workers
waiting to hear if they have a job for the day,
whispering to each other about necessity,
shoulders tense and shivering,
resigned to the bitter
tug of what must be done.
How they huddle and gather,
anticipating their inevitable dissolve
on the grit and rock, how they surrender
to this destiny, to witness themselves
as mere shadows, lightless, utterly spent.
This is the nature of love,
with its haul and heave, its breathless
suspension and the wild pull
to an inevitable undoing.
How quickly we turn to mist
hovering on the wind, how the moon wrenches us
back into the swarming fold, each time
a bit more accustomed to betrayal.
And I surrender to this
clipped to this life, to this
unruly belief in love,
translucent and limp, yet
still hoping for work.
I see myself now, rising
from the waves’ exhausted collapse,
moving through the air, a sheer
memory of water, drying out
on the wind-whipped face of a woman
placing her trembling hands in the sea,
as she watches the worker’s arms,
cloaked in foam, flail before her,
their earthly moans escaping
from her gaping mouth.