The National Catholic Review


And then there is the sea,
the matte grey
of the Pacific
filling the horizontal

axis of our vision,
no space for clouds
only the white of clouds,

In San Francisco,
this water had called us
out of our rooms,
out of our lives,

its cold darks
tugging at our ankles.
There were birds, of course,
and the setting sun:

say that the birds
were white, grey-white, perhaps;
say that the sunset
was a red no chemist

could titrate easily
we would be unable
to corroborate any of it.
Nothing could distract us

from where the ground
ended, our cameras charting
the cliffside as it disappeared
into depth and sea foam.

 Nothing but the ocean
engaging the jagged shoreline
could convince us, there
at the edge of the world.

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