VI
of the overlapping waves, boiling surf
into a green-gray howl,
the waves rearing up like cobras to strike,
then sighing back from the lips of the boardwalk,
as waves, thick as rolling whales,
spume white and roll again and spume again,
the waves’ habitués watch from blanket or deck chair,
with a patience powerful as thick green glass:
the cabaret of petticoats: the waves rolling
without plot or purpose, as we will be in time,
without plot or purpose: which is why the gulls glide
like a pair of brackets overhead,
and the waves run like herds of white mice
between the hypnotic tantrums of the surf.