Originally written at the New Dungeness Light near Sequim, Washington.
From above a form of love.
Continuation: seals breathing seals.
Images birthing images.
As the crows fly, my feet dangle.
Cascadian mountain obscuration
and the landscape of unburdened access.
A sharing of low tide scale
storied with discussions of genocide,
oppression, angry monks, buried stupas.
Meanwhile, the shore considered:
what would it look like to be thorough?
Density is a question of triangulation.
Curiosity is an answer of specialty.
The sedges and dunegrass mimic death:
apparent, lifeless, listless, lidless
when unplayed by the wind’s fingers.
The bees dormant and their buzzing immense:
reallocation through Cargo containers from China,
the general hum of an industry
within which the sun burrows,
within which the soul burns, ashen, corpse-full
and daggerlike through the eyes of a keeper.
Our cries are whispers in the dawn,
we are passing for lurkers,
and yet all eyes on the tower and its perimeters
of driftwood elegy and eelgrass scrying.
All eyes on the lawn nearly overgrown, always,
and the dreadnaught pilfering the tidal pockets.
Indebted to a sly psychedelic enrichment,
amidst the crucible of negative ions,
the blanket effigy of the mountain’s pines,
we are staring into space in spherical perspective.
It is that furrow lurking in the nearby,
alienesque tentacle mass and devoid of jellies,
devoid of the heartbreak of social expectorants.
In the room next to mine, they speak of meetings,
and I feel the pull, like putty or sap,
to explode into tracks like coyote and plover.