The ocean waves, that is the rhythmic undulations
emitted ceaselessly from the rich void out there
and beneath us in the earth and the weather from above,
gently yet unyielding, roll over the back of the large stone
three-quarters submerged at the water’s edge
in a distinctive V-pattern, and such a pattern
takes lasting shape in the lines of fine, soft sea-moss
that grows atop the stone’s surface and makes one
draw a comparison to the thick hair flowing
from the back of an early ancestor, stooped and apelike,
a pre-hominid lad or lass diving for clams in the shallows
and using their dextrous extremities to pry open the shells
perhaps with the aid of some early attempt a chef’s knife.
The stone is me, you think.
Or trying to be, at least.
Perhaps though, it is I who is trying to be the stone.
the pyramids and skyscrapers
that reach to the clouds
we’ve walked on the moon
and cured cancer
but we’re most proud of our ability
to ignore skin colour
and text while we jog