the wind spills in
angry from the west.
it bends the trees.
the ocean reminds me
of poems.
sylvia plath,
neruda,
eliot. those names
which i would like
to toss about me
casual as pennies
shining brightly in the sun.
i want to be smiled
upon, but the light
shifts away
running in the face
of heavyarmed clouds
gathering into tight fists
over rough water.
i am no fisherman's daughter,
but yet the ocean
heaves at me,
a pulse pounding
at my own, overwhelming.