Pushed and pulled by forces from sun and moon
waves rolls across entire oceans
until they strike some thing.
Some waves pound upon a sandy shore and climb
until they can climb no more
and so they recede.
In great rounded loops they fall back into the sea.
Yet somehow their rounding retreats
striate into crisscross lines in sand.
Some waves slap on roots, or reefs and rocks;
swiftly they swing and swerve in uncertainty
recasting light as swirly pearls.
Some waves churn up discrepant truth by summoning stuff
into yon distant slick of dubious flotsam fluff:
Is it mirage or mire or mystery oil or what?
. . . as seen plainly from a plane ! a glut of what?