salt and sunscreen combine and run
into the corners of my eyes.
Those eyes upon the pier's end: the meeting
of drunk fishermen and barefoot women.
Above fourteen thousand feet
of golden-hot atmosphere, sweat rolls,
singeing and blurring my vision.
What West Coast freedoms are sold for altitude!
For those sunned statuettes, those eager children,
the seagulls, the fishermen, and their prey
never visit my third dimension, my cockpit.
And yet, I find a second ocean,
more measureless than the first.
A new abandon of yellows, whites, and blues.
