I'm running low on ink, nibs,
stationary, bottles and cork,
the Milky Way above the vast blue sea,
tides and currents sweeping away
my inquiries never to return.
Sitting on a rough beach
I seldom pace anymore
but often stain my knees with prayer,
if the shell of sky and ocean
somehow forms the answer,
me without ears to hear,
held up too small and distant
in the eternal,
not a climbing path anywhere
among the heaving waves and stars
but the pitched bottles merely
a poor substitute for drowning.
O child of God, facing sea and skyward
distracts you from your inherent solitude.