Ryan Van Winkle
Waiting for the Ocean
Waiting for the Ocean
Cover myself in blankets
of dust. Cover myself
in a second-hand poncho
Virginia Woolf could have worn
with her pockets turned inside out,
the light tongues of fabric licking
at the salted California sun.
It can take some time
and she keeps saying
she was drawn to me.
There is an attic of time
which I hide in, time
where we walk blank beaches
that never get cold,
visit bright houses which cast no shadows
onto pink shores. We pause on the coast,
her hands freckle and brown
and her hair lightens a little.
People say to her – You
look good. And I say -
The chairs were flying.
They aimed for my head.
And I say, I was drawn to you
by the chairs and she understands
and never calls the weather mundane
or melodramatic. And the ocean stays
in front and below:
unknown and living with us.
