Cry, Making People

To whoever is not listening to the sea
this Friday morning, to whoever is cooped up
in house, office, factory or school
or mine or prison cell,
to that person, I’m sent, and without
speaking or looking

I arrive and open up the door
and a vibration starts up, vague and insistent,
a rumble of planet and foam.
Groaning currents of the ocean rise,
the water beats, ebbs, roars, and goes on beating.

For these anonymous, shrouded hearts,
I must listen to, I must keep the tides,
must feel the crash of the hard water,
gather it up and up, offer it, lift it,
pour it into and out of and into the same perpetual cup.

For whoever is not listening to the sea,
for whatever reason,
I must be present,
ready, with an errant wave.
I must move in and out of shadows, and without
saying anything,
I must broadcast the starry echoes of the surf,
the breaking up of rocks, the carving of coastline,
a pounding, then a rustling of withdrawal,
and finally, the grey, free cry of gulls.

This is given. It is not chosen.
The pitcher cries for salt water to carry,
the poet for words that are real.

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