On a Sunday Afternoon

Pour toi, mon amour.

Waves crashing...
the primordial din
above which rises...
a silence. Peace.

A small voice,
joyous in its petition.
Not angry, or sad.

Adventure winks its
third eye -
all seeing - all knowing?

Waves rolling in, rolling...
out. A clearing of the
brooding horizon.

At last, together...
conflated in the molting
reptilian skin, about
to slough into nothingness.

Nothingness, abyss, and the blurring
of borders, and then
redefining, realigning,
unifying, mitosis in the sin.

A bifurcated path in the garden,
which leads, once again,
to itself. The unfolding.
The spiraling in.