feeling the effects of the woolfian cure (i’ve spent the week lying by the sea and don’t feel crazy anymore)

the ocean gets into your bones

and that house in jeffrey’s bay, the wooden balcony facing the shore—what pleasant work for my feet—the banister and a towel to soak up the dew—what music in my ears—what antarctic clouds draping the sky—what dove-like birds chattering—what a morning what a deep breath i took—and oh how the waves have grown restless without the moon—and the mountains stand century beyond the mist—this morning is just for me—and oh what a morning it would be if not for that woman’s hand finding me in the dark—last night’s “aftershock” is being smothered by the sea static—and oh what i would be if i could fully breathe in the whole spray, get it deep into my lungs and make a new, less Atlantic ocean