By John Grey
The sea still explodes with soda pop fizz,
here where fun greets the sun greets the sand,
and castles fall but no one weeps for them,
not least the child splashing giddy with his shovel.
That everything else has little meaning
the brine exalts in its own brute honesty.
A man in a business suit is dumped by the breakers
and rises wet and laughing.
The sea's never read one novel,
not even the book where it's the star.
It cares for no particular philosophy.
It drowns the existentialist, the parish priest equally.
It takes for granted how much the world is water,
and the preening bathers also.
Toss in some salt, mix and stir, explode
in soda pop fizz, where bodies almost care to differ.
The sea still explodes with soda pop fizz,
here where fun greets the sun greets the sand,
and castles fall but no one weeps for them,
not least the child splashing giddy with his shovel.
That everything else has little meaning
the brine exalts in its own brute honesty.
A man in a business suit is dumped by the breakers
and rises wet and laughing.
The sea's never read one novel,
not even the book where it's the star.
It cares for no particular philosophy.
It drowns the existentialist, the parish priest equally.
It takes for granted how much the world is water,
and the preening bathers also.
Toss in some salt, mix and stir, explode
in soda pop fizz, where bodies almost care to differ.
John Grey is a Rhode Island-based poet and a frequent contributor to MyStoryLives.
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