Far Rockaway, a storm coming—
swells at pale sight’s last grey clue.
Thunder in the offing.
A sense of all, all, mere air—
above, down, forwards, inside, through.

You wage your time for a whole—
partials, weak explanations, glare.
Chinese flowers untwist, paper in water.
In endeared gardens cells fail with their thirst.

So some have said the works is: Who.
Seen across our unremitting daylight,
their skipping mountain crags are—who?

A cant smacking of divine sleight.
Men of cloth have parsed both stars and wars.
Who made the rules for Einstein’s dice has lost…

Right here on this civil beach the ocean surge
has not deferred to impersonations—
only suasions of a fanciful moon’s dull weight.