myth

sorrow is stranger than the sea,
and stranger and as sad;
how often in recent time i’ve been thinking of you
as my myths root,
strange that sorrow that tongueless ages and the strong strange sea softly survives
surfaces around sunrise on a summer day,
drying the streets beneath the sea.
when my myth becomes your history:
how often i’ll think of you.
so now is now,
and now begins,
and the sea’s vague rising sings the singer who taught our lips to move.
whose voice was heard before the wind – the moment will come,
but when?

and then?

and then.

- tomato