Postcard 149

I am a sea of faces beating a shoreline

I am a spume of seeds

There is no me

I am stone washed to sand

I am the womb's empty recieve

Cupful of wind, bundle of sea

I am an eon of abandoned bones

& shells bleached white

I am tide made dolomite

The intention of ocean, 

resistance of ground

There is no me

I am the light release of fluvial plume 

I am the seed splitting sprig and spray

A bushel of sprouts is not a tree

An ocean is not a basin full of streams

There is no me

Calm careless erosion, 

ground-splitting lust and need

I am a sea of faces beating a shoreline

a hard shelled seed of lust and need

Does rounded sand resist compression?

Does bloom of clouds desire depth of sea?

There is desire. There is no me

There is resist. There is no me

There is comfort. There is no me

There is pain. There is no