The Potential in The Rough #1 (Cocteau)
The sun, such a constant–would
disappear if you let it. But that–
a rip-current, when the surf is rough–
leaves you locked in at wave-height before
breaking, just as the light lets go of a shimmer across the water.
Isn’t it lovely, all that surface, caught up
in an image? Even birds would be drawn to it,
diving under for what might be found there.
Yet remember, as a swimmer, the shore-line
fading–it’s not the pulling under, but being
carried away that matters.
Wave after wave batters the beach, undermining the edge
where the houses are. They have nothing to say–even with
so much to see–not architectural integrity, though everyone
on the sun deck basks in the afternoon
with alacrity, torso after torso.
You bowled me over, really, with all
that talk about what you meant,
though that was not what you said. That’s standard
anymore–I know–I get it–you
had the hull of the argument–my expression–
and whatever seemed more like a laceration
was lessened by the birds in the backyard, in the trees,
fragmentary songs as the morning said so.
The details–cells, uncontrollably dividing–
eventually knock us out. Washing away
is all you can wish for–the houses–
for all they’re worth, impediments
collapsing, in a froth that came
and never went.
