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 Pacific Ocean apes the face of the moon
in size unfathomable to minds as mine
likewise effect which upon time untold
unites the men and women in kind.
Through we, the people, the city, the ghosts,
our bloodshed, orgasms, soft drinks
and me, through us all
the moon is constant, remaining
subject for world’s people to gaze
necks bent longingly skyward,
and so has the ocean
lapping at our toes.