3 November 2024

By Philip Kuepper

I am watching the ocean breathing.
I am watching the chest
of the ocean rising and falling.
I do not want to waken
the ocean. It has slept
fitfully. It has passed
a restless night. I will
leave it sleep. Shh.
I do not want to draw
the gulls’ attention,
thinking if they do they will
land on the ocean and waken it.
Shh. (The nightmare witches walk
back to where they came from,
after haunting my life, incessantly,
for decades, the terrible cackle
finally being silenced,
their cauldron of scat
being flushed into oblivion.)
The ocean rests, while first light
combs quietly its blond
hair rumpled by sleep.
It is silken, and will not wake
the ocean with snaps of electricity,
as the comb’s teeth move
smoothly through it.
A blanket of blue covers the ocean, now,
a blanket appliqued with work boats:
trawlers, lobster boats,
a dredger, a police boat,
each one of which wakes
the ocean, that rises,
stifling a yawn.
The day has begun.

(23 October 2024)