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“And it’s a relief, or a small death,
to be standing, dressed in the simplicity
of night, for once not crumpled by ecstasy,
anticipation or senseless joy.
Silently, you greet the ocean, this pliant
metaphor for anything we feel at a given time.
As of tonight, you ascribe to it no meaning,
no truth, no character. But planted firmly
in its moving sands, your mere presence
is a question: is it true that everything will pass
before your dry eyes,
even this night stripped of tomorrow?
from “Poem without kites,” All Roads Lead to the Sea (Auckland University Press, 1997)”
―
to be standing, dressed in the simplicity
of night, for once not crumpled by ecstasy,
anticipation or senseless joy.
Silently, you greet the ocean, this pliant
metaphor for anything we feel at a given time.
As of tonight, you ascribe to it no meaning,
no truth, no character. But planted firmly
in its moving sands, your mere presence
is a question: is it true that everything will pass
before your dry eyes,
even this night stripped of tomorrow?
from “Poem without kites,” All Roads Lead to the Sea (Auckland University Press, 1997)”
―
