you call it an expanse
but I see the rivers,
no whitecap flecks,
just warp and weft
of current
slicing though floes
in their jagged way
and I ask
how they snake up,
crisscross, with tides
bulging under them all


I can see them now
the chunks of wave line
that seem like
quilt ridges
defining the shape
of the blanket
over your lap


perhaps they are clouds after all
and not the ocean moving,
and rather than looking down
and drowning in fear
I should look up and wave on
the broad flow of sky above,
and welcome the ridges of shade
that cool and protect