The Wave
We Ride

A poem by Bruce Boston

The wave we ride
in the systole and diastole
of the thoughts
we breathe,
in the trochee of a pulsar
or a silky slide of limbs,
is candent with life.

From the Pliocene to fire,
from snowy Yalta
to green 'Nam
to the airless green
of the Mare Nubium,
the wave we ride is lupine,
expansionist, migratory.

Move carefully
across the burning grid,
watch for gaps in the skein,
the wave we ride
breaks bones and bars,
the wave we ride is vermicular,
taut with singularities.

Engrammed by the maze
of maturation
our senses can fail,
the wave we ride can fade
in structures and pages,
in language gone down
around itself.

Feel the tingling
in your calves and thighs,
the drum of your heels
as they push the
earth away.
See that black bird
gliding against the sun
for the swollen black cross it is
and sun no longer sun
but brightly burning ball.

The wave we ride is
lucent with the knowledge
of light and particles,
pungent with sound,
articulate with longing
for unseen landscapes
and the slide of silken limbs.

The wave we ride is numinous,
it breaks against our selves
replete with vision
in the cry of every
newborn instant.

Previously published in Star*Line, Jan-Feb 1983.

Copyright 2006 by Bruce Boston