Friday, August 27, 2010

For Seamus

My friend Seamus' blog is all about having sex with waves. Not really. But sort of. Anyway, this one's for him.


At night, I lie and hear the waves. I match
my breath to them. I beg for their stampede
to reach my second-story door then break
it down. Rush over me and hold me flat
against the bed with unseen muscles. Make
me drown under their weight, surrender to
their pressure, fight my normal buoyancy.

Engravers, painters try to capture them,
but I give in and let them capture me.
I know how futile replication is.
Courbet had to admit defeat, could not
come close to representing them, but what
he learned from his least still subject, he used
to make his deadest canvas come to life.