LOW TIDE

You walk and walk forward,

the shallows last, the breeze

on your back, the crispy waves.

Then you finally plunge and swim

and follow a line of poles

and look at the bottom of the sea,

at last at a decent distance,

that undulating sand like

the waves of a mind

or of a universe.

Swimming is a digression

in a digression, the roar

all over like an unframed

applause.

 

Then, back to the shore,

walking in the lasting shallows,

any depth postponed even if

you sense an embracing gaze,

and know that no sea

is ever mellow 

and the shallows can always

just give in

like the outer rim of a dream

ready to swallow.