The Mediterranean

Old one, I’m drunk with the voice
that pours from your mouths when they
gape like green bells and
beat back and dissolve.
You know, the home of my far off
summers belonged to you there
in the land where the sun simmers,
the gnats blur the air. Also today
I stand like stone in your presence,
sea, but no longer think myself worth
the grave exhortation of your breath.
You were the first to tell me
that my heart’s puny tumult
was nothing but an instant
of yours; that here deep in myself
was your perilous law: to be vast and varied
and still hold fast:
and so be purged of all filth
as you are who batter the coasts
among seaweed starfish corks
the idle trash of your abyss.