The sea

look at the sea. a world of water inside out,
a stagnant plain. there’s no way to criticize it,
even if it does kidnap certain wayfarers.
to comprehend its blueness, its sound,
you’d have to let go of all your illusions
of morality and beauty.

the earth holds onto us and is sure of itself.
on the feast of St. John’s we made a bonfire
on the beach and the flames
almost knew that they were uniting us with something.
this sea is the same in which, not long ago,
a sailboat was lost and three men died.

the streets are empty.
you make a point of giving to each object
the attention you think it deserves.
the morning rooftops
shelter Sunday within Sunday
and the different conceptions of what Sunday is.

you look to the sea with a bitterness,
openly, in no particular direction –
but it’s not the sea’s fault
that it hypnotizes the days, the same way these bells
hypnotize the neighborhood
just before we all wake up.

(From Intemperie, 1995)

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