Rip Tide

Dreams pull like a rip tide
at a soul thrashing for the sand,

that clutch and surge 
of power in the terror felt, 
as one is drawn inexorably 
to the deeps.

The soul fingers the hem 
of the ocean's spirit and quails, 
monsters and mystery
anciently running the fathoms flicker 

and flash like barracuda scales or
the muscular rush of the whale's 
eerie echoed song, far off and haunting.

For the moment, here is turmoil, 
the ragged edge where 
seashells grind in the sand to nothing 
and waves roll in the level sunlight 
thrown back in curling gleams,

but soon, past bar and breakers,
the hectic shallows drop off to the long blue darkness,
and the soul is swept away in the churn 
of little bubbles, to sleep
among hidden fishes blind of eye
but sporting tiny lights and endless hunger.

The soul knows that hunger,
runs its tongue across a mouthful of fangs;
smiles, and finds itself
swimming hard for the bottom.