Asilomar, December

Lance Nizami


Surfers, far black dots, rise and fall on green liquid
The wave-swells: high and long, the water: slow and heavy
White froth tips the breakers
Grey clouds, layered, sunbaked, filter light
Gusts sweep the brown, soaked beach as breakers froth in white upon it
Long and heavy “whips” in olive, ocean’s litter, stems of kelp, lie rotting
Asilomar, December


Asilomar has a heavy surf
Ducks bob on the heavy surf
Men bob on the heavy surf, in wetsuits

Is the wet and windswept Asilomar beach a hospice of surrealness?
The Pacific Ocean, green, rolls in; it froths in white
A godwit quick-strides back and forth
It’s surfwards, beachwards, back and forth, mesmerizing

How long its black-tipped bill
How sane its fear of ocean’s pull
The ocean pulls; a surfer rises, freed.

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