Her skin rolls in waves, coating in membranes, a stick, a jabber, my trusty stabber. I think pink, I think roses budding in fast-light, under full moonlight, past-life; oh, you should've seen her, my lovely sea.

Jellyfish peaches flounder and drift, and ebb with the currents over my head, before my eyes, and I am consumed by her torrent, her wrath, her quick-lift, her must. For the ocean, the sea, is never good skimming the tip, dipping a toe in the waters, (for they are warm, my brothers, they are ever-warm) and the ocean, the sea, is always good to me. 

Lights for eyes burst and shatter above the starry surface and obliterate the chatter. 

I looked into the face of God that day, and I saw the eye that suspends over the ocean spray. Sideways, it opens and stares at me, and its’ tears are the ocean itself — its’ iris is the depth of the sea, and on my boat, my wooden shore, I chanced a shot with my bow, sinking in the darkest part, and lids sucked closed around the arrow-haft. 

The winds, they sigh overhead, my whole body is watered as I cry out my Lord's name, and I am reaming, and I am writhing; and sea foam, and the salt water comes as coat; and I am stuck, and not stuck, and I grip at nothing, fish skitter past and I think white! White! I scream my Lord's name, and I am swept away. 

Finally, the ocean is done with me, and with her last gushes of surf she deposits me on the shore, and I gasp, soaked, spent, and I mutter my Lord's name, and know I am done.

And I was done.