Speaking of a sea of faces. Spoke
more truly than he knew.
Which war it was, is incidental.
As is the where of it. Enough to say
it was a crowd in turmoil.
What else is there to know?
He who speaks of sea or ocean
speaks of restlessness. Eternal
movement at great depth.
Of currents powered by primal forces.
Emotivations far below the skin.
And how cross-purposefulness,
as between the different streams,
puts them in conflict with each other -
and in time with every one,
affecting what the surface says or does;
affecting masks that hide the face, mysterious -
and in the last analysis,
The faces may be drawn,
stressed-out by moon or mooniness,
be whipped by winds
and shallow feelings, but beware:
they break and shatter in a spray...
of what? It's that
we do not know
and shall not know
until it is too late.
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
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