yet when you imagine them
they shine the clearest ideal blue.
Salt on your tongue and in your eye
reminds you there is no escape
from grit, from the salty sand ashore,
there can be only less or more.
It’s enough to make you contemplate
a seaweed’s fate or fish’s story
seen from it’s ugly marble eyes,
how the ocean shallows
shift distant horizons
into whole alien
You contemplate waves,
take mental snapshots, recall
precise amounts of sand stirring
at the shuffle of your foot, floating
to the top of the wave like white pepper
in a scratched kitchen glass. You are
limited, terribly limited at counting
grains of sand upon the shore.
Only god has time for that, so
just enjoy the screams of
pleasure, fun, perhaps
a little hidden, silent
panic as the
To read Enoch’s bio and more of his poetry published on WIZ, go here.
Photo by Jon Sullivan