The Wave
The wave hits the beach,writing words on the sand -to the academic man,this could be the answer....In fact, it's no more than a hunch;still we try to eat it...I think we're all pretty out to lunch.
The wave is out of reach,trailing words from the handonly air can understand;semaphore on the shoreline,waiting for distance to recede,unhappily imperfectwhen we should be happy just to breathe.
But with each bated breath,so present, tense,we want to know, we want it sure,it don't make sense!So I'll do mine and you do yoursbut let's not trade sand and seafor brick and cement.
The wave hits the beach,laps around abandoned clothes,wants to share a joke with thosewho'll brave the breakers,who'll break bread rather than praywhile the definition-maker'slost in the small print of the day.
The words are only picturesthat the next wave wipes away.