I thought I’d had it buried, but it kept coming back—

this time-worn desire, this ritual throb. And because

it had a pulse, kept shrinking, then expanding,

it could always reach out, or pull itself back.

It had something to do with the sea, some sense

of welcome and reproach, and wanting

to reciprocate, if only within, if only as a sign

that desire is also the hatred of desire

as much as it is love of anything else. The question

in this way is limitless, though not less than it is, well,         

anything else. It floods and then it ebbs, then it pours all

in again, as what I learn is simply my soul swims on.