—The heart of man is very much 
		like the sea . . .
				—van Gogh

Being advances itself for being.

                . . .  all I want is having you
                 and music, music, music—

That, O vast Rondure, is theme, and all else,
they are convincing asides, movements
in the symphonies of the sea; 

                        	*

fluorophores and organelles clutching themselves
in a florilegium of emerald algal bloom
dancing the sea’s harmonies, conjure
bioluminescence and the night—

                  . . . similitude interlocks all—

                                    *

The sea has its moods too, somnambulist swells
and their scends bumping into themselves, knotted
gray browlines and twisted waistbands of waves
and always erratic, the undersea violence,
volcanic eruption, and when done
and calm is calm again, soft surf and spray
parliament of congenial libretti
bright as children at happy-day-play,
Orphic idylls swaying,
and seacoasts, foam-soaked, sprout
towers of echium, flower fantasies of blue girandoles,
and pink girandoles in florid abundance,
the pulses of salt and song singing over themselves
and the sea winds blow rich mists to the inhaling
inlands, fields of iris, sky lupine, sticky monkey, red sorrel . . .

                                      *

Sea air wanted this to be written, all of it
again and again, like the tide pulling out
and the tide pulling in—

        . . . all I want is having you
         and music, music, music—

Echo, the echoes sound and resound
as much as spray is script, and that
we do not need sea glass to see ourselves—
Look—the lovers are once again vagrants 
walking the long sand hand-in-hand.