Seek

by Steven Clifford

Waves manipulate him, and he submerges hard,  
foam encapsulating him, trying…

…“to find
the one true creation,” a distant radio announces.  
And fuzzy interference projects over raspy voices. 
“They say it can’t be found.” “No one knows what it is.”  “It will answer all secrets.” 
"Its out there”…

…somewhere, in the ocean: blues, reds and purples
blur and blend, and every spec flickers so.

He inhales oxygen with no gills.

Tremulous waters pulls him to high skies. Winds quake molecules berserkly.   
His face winces, and his squinting eyes withhold a

faded gold dessert of dunes of various heights of

millions of rough lines,
the vanishing points eased. Loose sand blows through the wide reaches of a
nonexistent horizon. By a change of heart,
he unearths the ocean bottom.
His hand ascends, guck in balm which he digs through.

He discovers a string of seaweed curved like a smile
and an off-centered stone.

White ceiling.