VI. The Sea-Vision

Waking to a world, we whine and
Wah, wah, wah. We hate it.
Water!
Where?
Gone!
Where?
Everywhere!

From Chatham Light the sea recedes after noon,
When the horses tire and seek cool sleep.
Water breaks along the edges of the bay,
And sand so slick emerges from the deep,
Freshly cleansed.
The corpse-like gray of heaven glowers
Over the abyss, an undulating chaos of
Gray and blue and green,
All some opulent bed beneath that feather comforter,
Pulling back now,
For I’ve slept late,
And I’m reminded that the sun goes down in April.

“Let’s walk and talk like before. You can read
Your poetry to me—and I’ll like it.”
- - Who are you?
“Oh, it was nice, but then you went too deep.
I can’t swim well, and it felt like drowning.”
- - I no longer need to swim.
“But see, you can swim and read to me, dear,
And I’ll listen by the pool and sun-bathe.”
- - Ah, but I scorn your vacant voice.

The trawler captain, good Allen Gray,
Casts his nets for fish all day.
What do you say, good Allen Gray,
Won’t you catch some fish today?
For an answer, he peers into the deep
(Shake and turn over: “Looks like a yes.”)
And sees the sunken Roman arches—
But so much more, a ruined world reborn,
Atlantis—e pluribus unum—rises beneath
Good Allen Gray,
Who pulls in multitudes today,
And tosses three up to the albatross,
Perched upon the ship again.

The car is silent with me in the driver’s seat.
I think I’ll take some pictures, he says.
With my new lens I can photograph from farther away.
That’s good.
He pauses then and goes about his business,
(He wanted me to come, but so sorry,
The son has found his own wings.)
And from the sea wall he peers
Into the April afternoon.
What can he see? I wonder.
Set against the encompassing sky,
He looks alone at fifty-four.
Quick, fly away!

(Scare me not away.)
“I was at the beach today,
And it made me think of you.”
Those memories are like dreams (oh yes):
“They come out of the blue.”
And we come now from the deep,
But we could not find those there,
Only serenity
Amidst the disorder.
Time now to set each dream in its proper place,
This one for the pain, and that one for the rain,
This one for the night, and that one for the passion...
Bring me ‘round again, (oh yes)
Bring me ‘round again.
Bring me ‘round.
It’s all spinning, spinning, spinning...

A bird circles above a boat, eager for some spoils,
While from beyond the sea wall twins appear
(They come out of the blue)
Walking with hands intertwined.
They were building on the beach before going for a swim;
Half of each is drying sand and
Half of each is dripping sea,
Each drop a disappearing memory,
Like who they were before the shore
And what the deep withholds.

Not enough color for April pictures, he says.
That’s good.
There’s someone wading to the waist in scuba gear—
His flippered feet would flop ungainly on the beach—
A fish out of water and a man out of land.
Who am I?
He beckons me.
It’s not time to go back yet—for now
Let the sea flow into me
And I’ll nurture it into a wondrous thing.
He beckons me, but he understands.
“I will return one night in mid-December,
Just as sure as taxes are in April.”
Who am I? I am completed now to full circumference.
He beckons me: fare well.

Not enough color, he says. Some other day.
Too dark. And cold. And dull.
The Cape is so shitty in April and
Wah, wah, wah. I hate it.
Color!
Where?
Atlantis!
Where?
Everywhere!

The light will guide us past the shoals and stony points,
As eternity before us passed with passage booked for infinity.
Radiating light, bedazzle us with beams of genesis,
And bring us back a bounty of the summer sun.

For I have seen (without eyes), yes, I have seen,
We will gather by the shore.

From the car I walk along the shore
And sink my toes into the sand,
Curl them like great roots of knowledge,
And drink the earth’s bounty,
Like the farmer’s soil turned over
And over
And over
And over again so that we may feast on time itself.
Over and around, churning up and down, ‘round and ‘round,
It’s all spinning:

“I had a vision by the sea:
An august bird of ivory circled once, twice, thrice,
Plunged into the chaos of the waters,
Withdrew a fish of mottled gray,
And dropped it generously at my feet.
The fish (a kind I’ve never seen, and
Only heard of from mythologies)
Flipped and flopped without its air
And died, slowly, silently, but for the
Flip-flap
Flip-flop
(Tick-tock)
Flip
Flop
It sank into the sand, accepted wordlessly,
All was understood.
A bud appeared, and soon a trunk,
Branches, limbs, a verdant canopy
Encircled a new eternity.
Then the bird perched in the tree,
Waiting for its fruit.”

Not enough color for memories, he says.
No? Just grays and blues and greens,
The richest browns and deepest reds of promise.
Good enough for April pictures, I think.
We’ll return another time, he says,
And witness a world of change.
Yes, I know, I always know.
Yes, I always understand.
For I have seen (without eyes),

We will gather by the shore.