searching the self
is like stalking
stones after the surf
recedes, revealing
the strata of strewn
data
that are stones,
sand, seaweed and such,
situated and sorted
according to certain
stories more
or less
sentimental or sensational.
there is no need,
no necessity,
to navigate previous
scenes of splendor
or sorrow. there should
be no certainty
to serve this selfish
penchant for petulant
pondering.
i only wonder,
does the sea remember?
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