Let It Be, Mr. John

How far does an ocean go of troubles –
how long till the seabird finds its perch.

How many miles Mr. Dylan,
dear Jesus,
the context of a word with no sentence.

The tides are dark and the beaches lie quiet,
not a star in the sky to compass
but a roar of what must always crash down.

For as long as we’ve stood on ground,
the crashing,
Mr. Peterson of a Catholic heart in yogi meditation,
the tramp and the vagabond,
good samaritans my dear good man dear Kerouac
the sea.

Dear Marcus Dear Seneca Dear German Ideals,
Dear spirits or wavelengths hear the pleas:
dear wife,
dear child
hear the roar: have the pedestals stood empty? Have I gone too far?

The water is black past the breakers
and surface-still like puddles from below
between the crashing of the waves
and the surge and the pull has a hold on my feet towards the east –
a midnight horizon in a starless distance starless night
and not even the beach can I see.

And I pull at the water the salt in my throat
and wearied limbs and burning lungs,
pounding heart,
for I can no longer see the beach
and there is nothing to do but to swim, kick, pull
if there ever was
and no matter how hard how tired how strained
the muscles of the arms and back and legs and human will
there is the cold watery sinking
of what so many others have already known:
the riptide ends if you can only let go.

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