Your eye is always interested in the altering storms. Let it watch flutters of low tide and later, when water rises, waves reinforced row over row. Wound in green scarf you watch the scrapings of water through the lens. When you’re tired of witnessing, let ghosts walk you back and when you look out tall windows at what’s not discernible, make the camera lie fallow from its clicking. The sun has gone wherever it shouldn’t. Alone there’s no other body to claim you. Make your hand redraw any interior splendor. In the morning, the camera returns to find order, to watch lines of water pursue middle distance. It attempts the end of such sorrow. The ocean is loose in its episodic gesture. Every time, the water walks.
The Same, Inexhaustible
Now that I’ve lived at the tilt, I know the choir of rises and hovers, its tenor and morals. The coast keeps its rebuttal.
Sometimes the sound is like crying, the bemoaning of buckled waves—these can wake me. I know what is hidden. I’ve had my hands in the harvest
of what tumbles at the long rib of shore. Each coiled morning a cup and a kettle. The ocean grows cold to the fish.
It pushes toward limits of sand with wide hoops of water. And nights while I sleep, it flares back its white skin.
Days come again, and the water hefts purpose and madness. In this house full of names, I pour blue pigment into a hole,
and watch how it spreads. Just like the water, I note the hued bruise it is making, each sudden burst of sincerity.
Lauren Camp is a poet and educator. Her third book, One Hundred Hungers, won the Dorset Prize, and will be published by Tupelo Press in spring 2016. She is a 2015-2018 Black Earth Institute Fellow and the producer/host of Audio Saucepan on Santa Fe Public Radio. Catch up with her at www.laurencamp.com.