You’re wrong, of course.
A wave is something,
tumbling us against the rocks
until we are light and silver
and sculpted as wood.
Breathe. And watch
the air take flight.
(My respectful response to Lesley Wheeler, whose poem “The Sea Does Not Exist” appeared in The Malahat Review 190 (Spring 20150) p. 10, and includes the following lines:
… A wave is
nothing, a form we take until it crashes,
but nothing is a way of moving. The words
we think we know ride the sea air, but wind
is all birds. Even the blankest gust, feathered.)
