The Watery Night

The waves have their sing song, ever-content way of moving.
I can’t wash myself over wide beaches, so I walk instead,
Straight as if my steps were the spokes of a wheel.
My narrow track winds before me and behind
And throws me ever over my head and back to my feet again
In the sort of spiraling motion that will someday leave me a dot.
My corkscrew into the watery night will leave hardly a ripple.
So if the world is an ocean, or the night hides the earth,
My path winds itself upon buttresses felt more than glimpsed.