An eternity of waves tattoos the sand
In foam, embroiders it with seaweed, scarifies and brands
The verge of seven seas with Enoch’s alphabet,
Throws across the world its varied and consistent net.
The lines that mark the sleeper, writing on his face
The history of the night, each dot a word, each slash a phrase,
Whose agency’s a pillow, bolster, or a folded sheet,
Every night composes the poem that every day deletes.
Every prayer repeats, despite a change of script.
Every kneeling penitent has, truth be told, just tripped
And, rising from the floor, hurries back to sin,
All sins the same, a joy made joyless, revisited again and again.
Our hopes in similar wise rise in helix form,
Small distractions in a constant curve: We die, we’re born.
We see in Ferguson the Arab Spring that failed,
In that spring, the crocus, and in a dying Christ the grail.
Featured Image via YourAnonGlobal on Twitter