The way that things go together is also the way they fall apart

Sometimes, on the day that makes the day,

An hour that cares not to explain itself, a

Wave with nowhere to encounter, rises

To the shore, to lean over as if to turn an

Island up-side-down, world under world.

On the day that is that day, a flood that

Does not look like a flood, convenes around

A space it raises to an insular mound,

Resetting the limits above and below the

Water, taking it up from the ground.

Where a day could be, but is not, before and

After a day, it is sometimes the time of the days,

The ocean that floats a peninsula, unfinished,

A fresh emergence whetting the whole

To the self-surprise of its own size.

This day is more than the days, it is

Unbegun, and therefore must behave

Watered, unfulfilled, though must, has to be

Bigger than the island of before, but never

As wide as the ocean it feels now.

This day makes a day of days, where the beach

Reclines under the humidification, filled up

With sands helplessly full of examples of

Eroded versions of what it could have been,

Had it lived forever as such, unperturbed.