Blessed Apparel
Lord, I see you in a wetsuit. A name tattooed on your thigh. I don’t know how far I can go in admiring you, in uncovering your blessed self. I don’t know how persistently I can present my case. Drive me in your roadster with a wolf hound in the backseat to a bluff above the water leaping from shore rocks. I see a cabana on the shore for changing, though I hear there is no ocean there. Where will the fish go? What are whale songs if not praises to your majesty? Let me argue for the sprawl of ocean. It was the misfit earth that chin-strapped you to a black tree. It was the sea you walked across. I don’t want pleasantries as much as life instructional as a flannelgraph in the basement of a church. I’m stoked on the theater of the surf. Your tender jellyfish and hard- core judgments. Your heavy metal door no one can open but you. Maybe fight will be removed when we enter de-finned into your heaven and the beloved sea memorialized before your throne as Waterford crystal.
