I knew a spit of land that touched the sea—
this was in my early days before time
had dropped its bodhi bomb on me,
when gulls were real, not apparitions
struggling to be loosed from
bygone folds of time to gain air

when the hiss of surf following a wave’s rumbling groan
tossed its tight frequencies with generosity
as if its store of them were infinite
—things called from beyond that horizontal slice
in time and space past which none can see
until that rising hissing is here now
free of recollection

hear again


Jim Culleny