He walks down to his church – the beach is his church.
He confesses his occasional sins.
The surf does not care and the tide does not care.
He notes their indifference. He grins.
The wind blows up a storm and the big waves arrive.
He raises his arms and he drowns
in the swirling of birds and the negating of words
until there’s no meaning – just sound.
I love this. I feel taken up in it like the “he” in the poem.
Thanks, Elise. Good to hear.