The sea does not sleep;
it only lowers its voice,
turning the long dark over like a stone
it has carried since morning.
Listen — the hush
between waves
is the widest thing you will ever hear.
Under the black glass the fish carry
lanterns they do not know they carry,
and the deep goes on being deep.
Tide fills the tide pools one by one
the way sleep fills a house:
first the low rooms, then the rest.
Somewhere a bell buoy leans, and rights itself,
and leans — a slow iron heart
keeping time for no one.
The stars fall in and are not drowned.
They float there, cold and patient,
learning the grammar of the swell.
What the sea knows it says in one word,
over and over, in the dark,
and the word is almost your name.
Stay until the grey comes up in the east.
The night will fold itself away
like a net drawn in, dripping light.
Nocturne for the Sea · set in motion by scroll