It’s true,
as soon as we venture
into deeper water
I tend to become
afraid.
Between waves
it may be calm
but I think of things
that are treacherous
and deceiving—
I hold out my arms
against the blue-
green onrush.
Even with arms
wrapped around me,
I know ledges of sand
shift neither
from charity nor cruelty;
what washes up again
and again, pitching
and roiling,
does not necessarily
single any one thing out.
That’s what
unnerves me
the most: not
the pointed intention,
but its apparent absence.