Waves lifting silt and muck
from seabeds,
darkening surfaces enough
for certainty 
to become elusive
even as all is refashioned
from their endless beating
upon land.

So many mornings
I awake so exhausted
from dreaming of surfing, 
sailing, or swimming
that I cannot rouse myself 
to ride those waves 
while awake.

I tell myself
my Work is done
at night, in darkness, in sleep,
beyond light.
All I do after dawn
is recordkeeping.

Waves under sunlight, though;
there is something to be said
for how diamonds
sting from spray, how glimpses
of shadows in those waves
may spark visions
and offer other truths,

but it is not something
I have learned to say,
I cannot stay awake
long enough to learn,
and how long it may take
to become fluent in that tongue
is more uncertain than 
what shape this shore will take
when these waves at last subside. 

Forty-five
minutes lying awake
after rising briefly 
and returning to bed
where nothing happened

so I rose and
sat with water and smoke
waiting for pain to subside
for another forty-five minutes

At forty-five
I would have brushed off 
a broken night like this one
as merely a test
of the preservation
and evolution of my energy

but at fifty-nine
frozen in the living room light
wanting nothing more
than oblivion temporary or
otherwise 

it is hard to imagine
that once upon a time
twice forty-five minutes ago
I had it

as it feels like I will never
have it again