I test the ocean with a naked toe,
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then fall, like rags, in folds of purring foam.
Float, eyes wide, the sun obscured by clouds
too dense, too gray, too heavy with their load
of next year's sea. The pregnant future glides
across the sky. I paddle slowly out,
past rocks and turtles, shells and staring gulls,
twisting in the tide. The sun goes down
without a fanfare; no drum roll for night.
Just the billion billionth curtain call.
Still stroking softly, I breathe deep the spray,
the juice of what I've done. It's not at all
a suicide. It's just a quiet song.
With only sea to say, "You got it wrong."
I blog irregularly at TinkerX. I'm also on Twitter. @andyhavens, go figure.