At my feet is the bronze foam,
whose fading sizzle sets our eyes aglow.
These arid pupils in which the sunset simmers welcome the expanse of flat, sleeping water,
and the breaths of those miles and unfathomable miles across,
blindly exchanging their silent musings traveling in breezes,
resting at street corners,
heated by city friction.
The wet coastal rocks on whose bladed edges I stand
diffuse into me their effortless resistance to the waves of shimmers
that lazily lick the land
with no regard to the spectators’ paused heartbeats.
These stones are stubborn not by chance,
but by choice,
and like them an impermeable stone resists erosion somewhere within me,
containing like a nucleus pieces of knowledge cultivated over years,
while around it
skin and muscle were stretched,
blood was cleansed and contaminated,
advancing towards my heart,
The sea still snores quietly,
the city and I perched on its fringe,
anxious as always,
awaiting some romantic ideal’s dramatic realization,
and knowing that we’ll only be met with the steely water’s playful grazes.
Patience is tested on both sides.
But the sea remains,
not sliding any further,
and I remain as well,
possessed by the view which I would most like to fold,
to slide into my pocket.
Possessed by its suggestion of escape.
They say songs are borne out of such sights as this,
but those living on the crusty shore are careful not to misspeak;
I don’t wish to make the sea purge its shipwrecks or sound its baritone gurgles now.
At my feet the bronze foam falters,
as if in equal response to my reverence.