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The ocean slams her basalt nemesis,
her cargo tossed, a living lemniscate.
Chill moon, turn about your differences,
throw your laughing smile across her surface.

You say there is nothing here but distance.
Honest friend she listens for your purpose,
measuring her depth against your presence,
she looks for steady guidance in your face.

The moon's rough hand, turns the tide, robs the grave.
Emergent lives; Chihuly glass and hope.
A million mimsy zeros ride the wave,
find the shore and bind to verdant rope.

Two distant friends now breathe in parallel.
A passing shadow whispers 'all is well'.


A stormy night, waves thrashing a gloss black, angular shore.
I imagine the ocean currents to flow like a living lemniscate.
An infinite loop of warmth and nutrients, the pulse of the planet.
The waves are full of eggs and lavae. They feel like glassy zeros.
Just alive glinting in the moonlight, fragile and new.
The battle between the rocks and ocean are not safe for these little lives.
A lighthouse stands with chalky indifference.
He is not interested in these natural tragedies.
I see a friend's face in the moon. He is cool and blue. He laughs.
I see light in his laughter and careful distance.
The even pull of his constant path shifts the pattern and stills the storm.
The world breathes a regular sigh, inhale and flow, exhale and ebb.
Our own peace and perils are small reflections of this wider rhythm.


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