Sometimes, on the day that makes the day,
A reason that does not explain itself, a wave
That has nowhere to encounter, makes it
To the shore, leans over the island and
Turns it up-side-down, under the world.
On the day that is that day, a flood that
Does not look like a flood, convenes around
The space it turns into an insular mound,
Resetting the horizon above and below the
Water, taking it up from the ground.
Where a day could be, but is not, before and
After a day, it is sometimes the time of the days
The ocean that covers a peninsula, unfinished,
Of an emergence that whets the whole
To the self-surprise of its own size.
This day is more than the days, it is
Unbegun, and therefore must behave
Watered and unfulfilled, but it must be
Bigger than the island of before, but never
As big as the ocean it knows now.
Today is a day of days, where the beach
Reclines under the humidification, made up
Of sands helpless with the old examples of
Eroded versions of what it would have been,
Had it lived forever as such, unperturbed.