Bờ phẳng On the flats

On the flats

Every day
the sea
proves to be
collapsible—

it goes away
rolling and sighing
heavily
out of the long harbor
to the very horizon.
Barefoot
we walk out
across that level dampness

until we are very far from shore—
far from our house,
or any house,
stepping upon the moist plain

that is all that is left
of the weight, the flurry, the flung salt,
the flash and the dancing
and the big voice of the sea