Idolatry

28 December 2013

It is with desirous pupils wide and fists clenched pink that the
center of the sea observes sea foam.

Kissing with crashing passion the pallid Sands that
from a misty distance the waves of the deep watch with cheeks flushed green.

The sand crab wonders in a state of wonder which is deeper,
the middle of the ocean or
the middle of the Shore.

But the sea knows its own depth, it
feels in its stomach sharks gliding coolly like
planes.

How deep is the Shore, has anybody
searched? The sea foam knows not but knows how soft
the surface where indentations shaped like toes lie.

They do not walk.

With metal detector eyes round as saucers the
voyager lost at sea feasts upon the Land and
ponders what Treasure Trove thrives beneath.

But no arms are long enough to extend past a shipwrecked boat
docked at the sky, anchor of paper bobbing on the face
of the glassy water to plant shovel in Earth.

And water doesn't have arms to begin with.