River and Her Man

I, a witty human,
buzz at the surf.
It, a muscular river,
paws at the shale.

A mosquito and a hippopotamus,
we live up to the limit
of each other's worlds.

Applying tiny forces
in highly specific ways,
I call myself
sophisticated.

It roars in ascent
and in retreat,
ever outward facing.

It does not choose.
It is the most complete
embodiment of its own
possibilities.

In a boat, I row across it,
drawing a line
in the extended now
of my inner world.

It whispers
directly into my dreams,
from beneath,
at the softest part of my mind,

rolling against my
least-known shore
and doing what she
always does,

shaping me in ways
my clever brain
will never comprehend.

Solving the Surface

Just as the people could turn their heads in unison
and form a bold new republic,
the waters of the ocean could shift
and reveal the shale and rushes 
of a new continent,
a glistening child world,
knitted together
from corals and ancient whale song

And now knowing that,
you gaze entranced at the water's surface,
wondering what seashell charm
could compel it

Knowing it is possible because it can be seen
in the privacy of the mind's garden
and so also knowing:
the way exists

Shimmering footprints of moonlight hint at 
the great choreography that would enthrall 
the ocean's heart, 
so that it willingly surrendered:

brooding soil, 
swallowed islands, 
lost coins, 
monstrous skeletons,
surf,
mermaid-bearing delirium,
scatterings of stolen light,
fallen mountains, 

and all the other treasures
to which your hand is connect
when you but place it beneath the surface
of the gurgling, swaying, 
salt-crazed waters

And so you stand at the railing,
your eye stroking the soft blue-grey fabrics
and gently coaxing
the birth of a new world