How the cry of a gull or the roar of the wind
becomes our story, how we are written into it.
This is how we are drawn into the ocean. 

The odyssey I've fallen into has passed depths
to be measured against the brightness of a dream
and reflected back at me, the haunting image
of my past's alternate selves, one in particular
heading the rest, a forgotten waif, made the best of it,
Pinky's there, in his vest, the rest in their Sunday worst.

The host of forgotten fantasies, to which I toast
a languid goodbye, at the most, drifting along
unheard of among cities on the coast
where the foam of waves whispers my name
in your hoarse voices, so the crash of waves
upon the rocks cries out your names in my own voice
and mingled, our soliloquy melts upon the winds above the sea.