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low tide at atlantic beach

David Blake

when I met the Atlantic I stood inches from its tide
as the sea foam crept up to my toes
like a dog tied to a tree
with each leap forward it is wrenched back with intensity

I spoke low to the waves
as they herded grains to their new home
and asked them how long they have to carry on
but they were voiceless
so I moved amongst them
and let the salt air stretch my lungs
irritating the smoke left in from when I hoped
a cigarette would help me die sooner

then I float on my back along the shoreline
and close my eyes
so when the waves tempt me under
it’ll feel like dying in my sleep
but instead i am guided towards the sand
to stumble on shore like a castaway

so I yell to the atlantic if it even wants to rise
and in response the tide retreats further
revealing bounteous nebula of sand and shells
and I wonder if the ocean is never ending

as the atlantic turns gray in the arctic
and arctic blue in the pacific
beyond its name it is oneness
and it can swallow everything
yet the further I swim
the more ruthless its rejection is

so I anchor myself in the dunes
to appear unmoving in contrast
to the water that repudiates stillness
when I turn to an evacuation route post
illuminating the anticipation of capability

and I turn towards the parking lot
guided by the innocent illustration
of a white crescent
to a rusting green bench
where I can wait for the humidity to defog my lenses
and consider that the ocean
in all its globe-encompassing greatness
can not fear my presence within its waves
or reject me from resting within its depths

but it is I who hesitates to its sovereignty
who wants to be sucked out by a riptide
but swims parallel to the shore each time
it is I who fears the oneness
the stillness of forgetting
and the permanency of eternity
because when the tide pulls out
it reveals that there is more

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