as if pushed by the dark hand of some great
one-eyed beast, the yellow moon, the wave
overpowers itself, powers over itself, trips
and topples over itself, and bottoms out
in the sand.
the next begins its billow,
in the swelling belly of the undertow,
rises like a blanket in the wind,
caught in the warm breath of the beast,
swept up like her blouse
and dropped like her pants on the beach,
and surrenders,
the same great heights, the same climax reached.
the old ocean discards, cascades,
discades itself.
the secret power makes itself known in the slow
push and pull, slow clown pounding blood rhythm
drumming blind inside our bodies and minds,
lifting the next wave like a sine, shoving it under
and pulling it inside.
the ocean: wave and undertow:
two bodies breathing in and out–
swept up like her blouse and
dropped like her pants on the beach.
— Edwin Chapman
