THE WEAVE:

Lilith camps on the Gulf,

parked before the Sea.

As Mist sets her locks in kinks,

she lets the Tide rip

into her diary…

It may be I find the Ocean 
more uncomfortable than 
the Desert.  One so dry
and cold.  The Other, damp

and balmy womb.  There is no
illusion at the Ocean.
Everything is One thing.
There is Nothing new

I can tell you that has not
already been said, eight-billion
times before, like grains of sand
or Sea-spray on the shore.

Here at the Ocean, the Mist
of Not Knowing and Knowing Everything,
does not knock upon your Door.
It swells so full

there is no escaping the sound
of pounding.  There is Nothing
to let in, or shoo aWay.
There is only the Door,

full of Sea, and no escape.
There is only you
on One side, me the Other, 
Love between.