My world exists between lifeguard stands 10 and 12
where I pretend to read about the Omega Point
while scheming God-chase scenarios of holy intrigue and seduction,
matched in volume only by the Song of Songs.
I pace this beach back and forth
in hot pursuit of whom I imagine
is a wayward sage with an earthen belly
and age lines on his smiling face.
Hiding deep in his expression
there is some ancient innocence to engage—
mine and his—
by joining our sex to make substance of our atoms
like foam after two waves thunder in that suck and boom
and delve into the sand’s uncreated infinitude.
There, crystals of brilliance spark like stars
born in Nature’s laboratory as gold in the refiner’s fire.
New centers will form in the complexity of our shape
and what we are shaping in our magmatic spirals
of quiet protest against all storms
that stay the progress of sharing our parts
from within the secret stratum of a world,
like an ocean, without walls.
One where we surf the gravity that pulls us close,
securing our wealth in the heat we hold.