storm before the poem comes

rain is shredded sentences

from books pulverized to paint;

the sea is a dictionary formed

over eons from lost messages thrown

by animals into the ocean, hungry or tired or desperate or bored.

the rough land knows

sea and storm and citadel;

i graze my tongue over pockets of sound. fingers

curse the stain, the rainbow gray oil of churn and blue.

if a single word the sun or moon it comes later;

now, a panorama of holy spirit sky come lake

of vapor distorted

through the drop splattered glass.

(we imagine later

the horizon, a stanza alone after the fog)

Bryan Edenfield is a writer, artist, and teacher in Seattle.