And it goes tick, knock, buck, tick, nothing.
We observe the shallow end
where the bars are at their least and,
binoculars to our eyes, we
seethe inward loving the
groove of wave forms breaking red
on the high rocks where our selves
watch back as they
mulch against the stones
where voices rise and fall like
lifetimes of city walls against
voracious nature, litter swept
until the plastic bursts, belly cut
apart again to foam wind high.
From the balcony, not above, crossed,
but too near not to taste the wind of so much
reduced to mist by distance, but still
thick enough to prick senses,
we observe the shallow end and
something stands up where the air thick with
voices not ours tongues our skin cold dead
against sunlight's warmth,
pressing grooves of wave forms where
the breaks scream high red and
fade too slow and it goes tick, knock, to nothing.
The record skipping where the paper
circles the spindle and
the silence
is disfiguring,
observing the shallow end,
the violence of its being
able to touch. The paper ring at the record's center
only there because there is a record. The
tide pool and those dwelling within
only there because
something crashes against faraway stone
and it goes, and it goes, and it goes.
