Emerging from the last, spent
Disaster, hair like stringy kelps
Fringing our vision, the next
Wave gathering its churning substance
As if for us only, we gasp and guess,
In a moment of life, what
The following one will be like.
As for wavering
Lovers, there are for us
Only present moments, only
Crests, for to plunge into the broad
Deeps is to be mistaken:
The ninth wave of the cycle, the
Fourth, perhaps, will be
Too much; and yet,
Eyes bleached into shining flatness
By the overexposure of our black black dive,
Lashes bleared in the spume, we stare
Seaward, not back toward the beach,
At the next mountain
That may carry us on to the golden lands,
Triumphant, and reposed.
But here, beyond the shingle of joy
And the broad shelf of love,
Not going under, not
Turning back
Is believing in the right wave.
The Right Wave
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