Breathing Water at Sunrise

From furthest reach, on fair winds blown, come Adam

and his careless spawn. The tides bring forth

in stinging foam

the hope of life, then slip away to search for more,

for hope

and life

live short on land. The hands that pull

other hands to shore, that grip the sand

in prayerful thanks, those hands

so soon are tucked inside, not brought to light

except for war.

Moving inland, feet beget shoes, shoes beget wheels, drawing

farther from hope, drawing deeper from life, until order demands all things not masterly

become slaves to craven masters.

“It is God’s will,” they say – we say – the golden excuse

abetting lies, erasing hope and leaving the memory of a beach

locked beneath the climbing dunes of the soulless desert. Is the God of the desert

the God of the sky, so, too,

the God of the sea, as well? Each realm

so distinctly alien to another, each space held

to a rule uncommon to its neighbors. If one law does not suffice, one God must live in

fractions, inexact copies battling over the constancy of motion. If one God does not suffice,

then every element a god becomes, for even the law of one

demands a keeper.

We breathe water at sunrise and smell

the air of the sky

at night. In between, we leave the gills and lungs

aside and devour the essence

of our garden’s border blooms and

dig our holes, besides.