Both sea and sky dream
eye-white blue, and I
feel empty as these eggshells on my break-
On TV news, twelve people die--
a high-def fire, a bomb-blast pixel-fleck
from dire Afghanistan. . . .
I turn to see
two runners on the Promenade whose race
might be my higher self and I,
as dogs unleashed that dream a master’s face
but never see it clearly,
or intuition, knowing faintly, bent
on ecstasy, but
fawning and afraid.
So many times I roll my pant-legs, wade
I must find the pier and dive
in deep, be swallowed whole,
then rise, alive.