Arriving at the Point

Now I see the ocean clearly but feel no wind.

Distance is selective with the senses:

Sometimes, topping this hill, I smell salt

Lovingly sent through the air long before

I see the source. Place is doled out in pieces,

But if you move in too close the memory

Disappears—I can’t see it all, all of it

Around me. That wave is this ocean,

This heartbeat is me, continuing.