Sometimes I think that people are the fingers
of God, like the blind ocean touching land,
and life’s a Braille that I won’t understand
if I’m not touching you and we’re not singers
kissing a song out of our mouths in bed.
Tonight I fumble keys in darkness by
my door and try to feel my way inside
to cook alone and watch TV; instead
I walk down California to the seething
blackness out there beyond the glowing beach
and stand a long time listening to each
heave, the ocean like the planet breathing.
It’s done with raging windily and wild.
Tonight it whispers, Shush, it whispers, Child.

From Beast in the Apartment (Sheep Meadow Press, 2014) by Tony Barnstone. Copyright © 2014 by Tony Barnstone. Used with the permission of the poet.