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The only reality is the perpetual flow of vital energy. —Montale Spindrift, crustacean patience and a gust of ozone, you come back once more to this dazzling shore, its warm uterine rinse, heart-racing heave and groan. A quick gasp as you slip into the hissing wash, star cluster, dulse and kelp, slick algae, spittle, froth, the intimate slash and dash, hard-packed in the seething broth. Soft water-lip, soft hand, close tug of origin, the sensual writhe and snore of maidenhair and frond, you swim here once more smart as a rogue gene. Spirits of lake, river and woodland pond preside mildly in water never troubled by wind or tide; and the quiet suburban pool is only for the fearful — no wind-wave energies where no sea briar grips and no freak breaker with the violence of the ages comes foaming at the mouth to drown you in its depths. Among pebbles a white conch worn by the suck and crunch, a sandy skull as old as the centuries, in cold and solitude reclines where the moon-magnet shines; but today you swirl and spin in sea water as if, creatures of salt and slime and naked under the sun, life were a waking dream and this the only life.

That sea we see of surfaces Turned upside down would be another world: A bone shop, soaked in pearl, a dumping- Ground for rarities, the sea-maws pumping Grecian garbage Roman cities hurled Seaward westward toward our faces. That sea would yield up secret farms, Gray-rotted by itself, encrusted thick With unimaginable wealth, the spoil Of deaf-mute drownings, the immemorial Dead, floating in a blue-green bailiwick Of nun-like plants waving arms. That sea will not turn over. See In its deepest keep, far from its shallow, The formal, hidden iceberg, slant, oblique With pregnancy below, thrust up its peak— Like ourselves in the water-beasted wallow, Caught in a cellular ecstasy. In the same vein, all flesh conceals Articulation’s fishnet, whose thread-bones (A metaphysic harp from sky to heel) Hang in the flesh that dangles from the creel Depending from the weedy Hand that owns All fishnets and all fishing reels. His answers breed a further question: The fingernails of scale a snake will shed In spring, coil after coil, on moistened clay, Though similar to the serpent wriggling away, Are but facsimiles, though not quite dead. Testing this, see how the rest shun Drying memorials to that race That mined our viewpoint in the Garden, Whose inching tape maneuvered in the sun To measure every guilty length of Eden. Man is an animal that needs a warden To frighten off the Master’s face, For even an idiot sees a world No tree or dog would dream of, finds a name For pain or absence of it, marries love Of one kind of another. In his grove, Insensible fruit trees and wild game Grow naturally, though he lies curled, The spit and image of our wish, Smoking a pipe, with an ice-cold Cola Clutched in one hand, and the Sundy funnies spread On both his knees. He’ll leave his lurching bed To throw hot jazz on an old victrola— A far cry from the primal fish Whose fine-boned spine our back remembers: The river bottoms, and the sea-silt soft As soup, the mudflats where night crawlers came, Tempted by the water tops to change the lame Arrangements, making of the air a loft Fitted to our brackish members, And out we clambered, eyeing land, Our moist eyes focused on the moron green, Hot on our backs abnormal dryness, shadow Forming in the seanets, seaweed into meadow, Finally landing at the foot of pine, Heavy with salty contraband While the birds beautifully beat blue On erect wings, as magically they soared, Feathered and efficient, from tallest trees to stake A claim so ravishing that now we undertake To map an area we once ignored, Still exiles from that upper view, For, mummers of the ocean’s Word, Our dry translations tidied from the deep, Bespeak its ancient languages. The salt Our tears and blood must harbor from its vault Is shed on every beach-head where we creep, Part man, dry fish, and wingless bird.

NOVEMBER 4, 1889 Somno mollior unda I Dawn is dim on the dark soft water, Soft and passionate, dark and sweet. Love's own self was the deep sea's daughter, Fair and flawless from face to feet, Hailed of all when the world was golden, Loved of lovers whose names beholden Thrill men's eyes as with light of olden Days more glad than their flight was fleet. So they sang: but for men that love her, Souls that hear not her word in vain, Earth beside her and heaven above her Seem but shadows that wax and wane. Softer than sleep's are the sea's caresses, Kinder than love's that betrays and blesses, Blither than spring's when her flowerful tresses Shake forth sunlight and shine with rain. All the strength of the waves that perish Swells beneath me and laughs and sighs, Sighs for love of the life they cherish, Laughs to know that it lives and dies, Dies for joy of its life, and lives Thrilled with joy that its brief death gives — Death whose laugh or whose breath forgives Change that bids it subside and rise. II Hard and heavy, remote but nearing, Sunless hangs the severe sky's weight, Cloud on cloud, though the wind be veering Heaped on high to the sundawn's gate. Dawn and even and noon are one, Veiled with vapour and void of sun; Nought in sight or in fancied hearing Now less mighty than time or fate. The grey sky gleams and the grey seas glimmer, Pale and sweet as a dream's delight, As a dream's where darkness and light seem dimmer, Touched by dawn or subdued by night. The dark wind, stern and sublime and sad, Swings the rollers to westward, clad With lustrous shadow that lures the swimmer, Lures and lulls him with dreams of light. Light, and sleep, and delight, and wonder, Change, and rest, and a charm of cloud, Fill the world of the skies whereunder Heaves and quivers and pants aloud All the world of the waters, hoary Now, but clothed with its own live glory, That mates the lightning and mocks the thunder With light more living and word more proud. III Far off westward, whither sets the sounding strife, Strife more sweet than peace, of shoreless waves whose glee Scorns the shore and loves the wind that leaves them free, Strange as sleep and pale as death and fair as life, Shifts the moonlight-coloured sunshine on the sea. Toward the sunset's goal the sunless waters crowd, Fast as autumn days toward winter: yet it seems Here that autumn wanes not, here that woods and streams Lose not heart and change not likeness, chilled and bowed, Warped and wrinkled: here the days are fair as dreams. IV O russet-robed November, What ails thee so to smile? Chill August, pale September, Endured a woful while, And fell as falls an ember From forth a flameless pile: But golden-girt November Bids all she looks on smile. The lustrous foliage, waning As wanes the morning moon, Here falling, here refraining, Outbraves the pride of June With statelier semblance, feigning No fear lest death be soon: As though the woods thus waning Should wax to meet the moon. As though, when fields lie stricken By grey December's breath, These lordlier growths that sicken And die for fear of death Should feel the sense requicken That hears what springtide saith And thrills for love, spring-stricken And pierced with April's breath. The keen white-winged north-easter That stings and spurs thy sea Doth yet but feed and feast her With glowing sense of glee: Calm chained her, storm released her, And storm's glad voice was he: South-wester or north-easter, Thy winds rejoice the sea. V A dream, a dream is it all — the season, The sky, the water, the wind, the shore? A day-born dream of divine unreason, A marvel moulded of sleep — no more? For the cloudlike wave that my limbs while cleaving Feel as in slumber beneath them heaving Soothes the sense as to slumber, leaving Sense of nought that was known of yore. A purer passion, a lordlier leisure, A peace more happy than lives on land, Fulfils with pulse of diviner pleasure The dreaming head and the steering hand. I lean my cheek to the cold grey pillow, The deep soft swell of the full broad billow, And close mine eyes for delight past measure, And wish the wheel of the world would stand. The wild-winged hour that we fain would capture Falls as from heaven that its light feet clomb, So brief, so soft, and so full the rapture Was felt that soothed me with sense of home. To sleep, to swim, and to dream, for ever — Such joy the vision of man saw never; For here too soon will a dark day sever The sea-bird's wing from the sea-wave's foam. A dream, and more than a dream, and dimmer At once and brighter than dreams that flee, The moment's joy of the seaward swimmer Abides, remembered as truth may be. Not all the joy and not all the glory Must fade as leaves when the woods wax hoary; For there the downs and the sea-banks glimmer, And here to south of them swells the sea.

Swimming in the swimming pool is where I like to “B,” wearing underwater goggles so that I can “C.” Yesterday, before I swam, I drank a cup of “T.” Now the pool’s a “swimming ool” because I took a “P.”

My father and brothers are swimming to the Rock. “Come with us!” they call to me and I say, “Maybe next year.” The Rock is very, very far away. I sit on the dock with my peanut butter sandwich. I watch them dive into the water and swim into the distance their kicks and splashes and elbows getting smaller and smaller as they near the Rock. It takes them a long, long time. They arrive and pull themselves to stand and wave their arms in the air. I can't see it but I know their hands are in fists. I can't hear it but I know they are cheering. Even the loons call to celebrate their arrival! I sit on my dock dangling my feet in the water counting dragonflies. My father and brothers come closer and from the water lift their faces with wild wet smiles And I think This year!

I spy his head above the waves, big as a man’s fist, black eyes peering at me, until he dives into darker, deeper water. Yesterday I saw him a foot from my outstretched hand, already tilting his great domed shell away. Ribbons of green moss rippled behind him, growing along the ridge of his back and down his long reptilian tail. He swims in everything he knows, and what he knows is never forgotten. Wisely, he fears me as if I were the Plague, which I am, sick unto death, swimming to heal myself in his primeval sea.

It's too soon for the front porch swing. No crocuses are opeing. The wind is from the north and chill. No matter. Spring is here. I still Am bound to sit and swing out there And feel it in the evening air. It's much too cold. The trees are lean And leafless—not a sign of green. It's foolishness to sit outside. The mockingbird has testified To spring's existence, and I see The buds are on the almond tree. I'm sure it's spring. How do you know? I think a cricket told me so.

We aren’t the solid men. We bend like the number seven. Dig at corners, eat cobwebs, we are barefoot and bare-legged. We hang like leaves in autumn. We aren’t the stolid men. We scribble in familiar ink about sunfalls and night. We see the white in the sky, and sigh. We lie with penciled grins. We aren’t the men, any men. We rip at the neck and wonder why while rattlers roll in. Bent as a number, crooked, sundered, we aren’t the idle lightning if black thunder.

How do you like to go up in a swing, Up in the air so blue? Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing Ever a child can do! Up in the air and over the wall, Till I can see so wide, Rivers and trees and cattle and all Over the countryside— Till I look down on the garden green, Down on the roof so brown— Up in the air I go flying again, Up in the air and down!

The Swiss just do whatever like masturbating their doink-doinks deep in rural France in the shadow of Mont Blanc. Heavy, dependable and prepared for whatever the Swiss vago-simulacrum recognizes as larder King Hussein and President Fabio, always just about to touch each other on their devolved sparkle-offs and Neil Patrick Harris appreciation pages. Everyone knows when these bizzarre Swiss cometh they cometh with fluffy Beatles-like six packs of shit-covered reindeer knock-knocking like a bummer. Glitter is the Swiss Army knife of the most bedazzlingly ridiculous emotions: the part just before the paranoid cheese-maker says, “Whatever you do in Palm Springs, don’t yodel”—a most unusual Swiss Miss mixture of very early skunk and the robotic sadness of women’s mold heavy, greasy, dense and low, like lethargic sea-green gardens with a buzz overpowering, like modern outdoor inbreeding.