The Perfect Ocean

These waves. Words
words and more
until a shoreline pounces
consumes and spits
meaning into the sun’s face.
And the sun bows
to the many events
unfolding like a rose
in June — for each event
a petal and for each meaning
a land mark of concrete
or cafe or walkway between
bent birch and raised
glasses. For each
emotion a place marker
that remains like
a lighthouse against rocks
and rocky results.
For each moment
others nestling against
and suffocating
until at that nadir
of asphyxiation
we realize a meaning
which could never exist
except when
meaning no longer exists.

We call that love.