It is everywhere.
the compilation of dew washing away the ash
from the burned down homes
unwrapped hallways
and burst glasses.
It all washes away.

And then
Leaving things behind,
the ball on the sand
the raspberries in the sweating bowl,
he walks away from the fields of summer.

The blue, silent bells
take him away,
And the curl like outstretched mouths
that ate him up,
is overflowed by the next,
Soundlessly falling deep
back into the rhythm.

He aches for this certainty.
To be born of something,
to feel such sorrow as the waves
lick away at boulders
until there is no more than
shinning pebbles,
weightless sand
and a completion in his bones.

As the blue surrounds him,
separates his toes
pushes through his thick hair
he sees
nothing.

But dreaming of this moment
had left harmonious maidens in his mind,
and now their beauty and smiling eyes
turn black.
Pulled away by the riptide.

In their place comes bubbles.
Fighting to reach out of his lungs.
But the sea holds them down,
making his heart race.

The taste of raspberries
and images of his crisp,
smoky house
alone by the water.
His afternoons once filled with blue teapots
and pie.
And thoughts of her gardens,
the flowers so close they played with the waves
all pushed the last pulse out of his neck.

He broke the surface,
stepping out onto the sand,
aching with his hunger,
as the sea floated and
moaned below him.