Sunday, March 30, 2008

Pacific standard

the sun and the wind roll equally along my skin. the shiver of early autumn would settle but for the rays that still descend. I know this is my ocean. Though 5000 miles distant, it laps these shores with the same rough tongue. Stories of the Pacific. my life is just one. but. held in the many. this ocean is our access to the far from here place that lets us see, first and again, what has always been true of our origin.
for a day indescribable what do you say? hours spent without needing to understand, to imagine. everything was present. was whole. was One. as were we.
and somehow this ocean holds a language. tells a story. and Ansel, Neruda, Helprin, me. the mariner is carried and promises remain. at any point we stay at the center of the compass. 5000 miles distant, yet the poem is the same.

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