FOAM

I look at the foam, delicate,
but different from the delicacy of ash.
Like looking on a life-giving smile,
a smile both exhaustion and hope,
I look now at the mere sea-foam.
This rough and beautiful moment,
this touch, the act of giving,
creating. The imprisoned pain
of the sea, saves itself in such light cloth;
under the keel, by the pier, where
furrowed love is, as on earth
the flower, foam is born and in it
death breaks. In its skein
where the sea becomes, as when in the height
of his passion man becomes, outside
other concerns: in his living milk.
At this wall, limit of the material,
a spring, not a mouth,
I am, when the tide
rises, and there I sink, there I drown
silently, with complete
acceptance, unhurt, renovated
in the everlasting foams.