Westerly

 

What comes off the sea recalls nothing

of loving a world and for those with eyes

wishing soemthing other than what is seen

it says: listen. 

Comes off the sea and does not care, says accept

There may or may not be a hand

in this: a taste of spray,

salt, some origin no longer

encompassing us with calm, says

you are now on your own.

And the shy-grown citizens.  City of harbors.

What comes off the sea has tinned the sea

wide and for miles like wheat blown one direction.

Off the sea, the distance it has glassed

faultering, comes near to ask

Who are you, and after you answer,

just sea, air,

nowhere in the gift-bearing world a voice

having said salt, water—

and in not saying,

not a thing we may call quiet,

no voice having sung.

 

                            -from Lure