Amber, from Lowman Beach

Amber

When the clouds burn off, do not speak its name. Like amber; catching flame like amber. Dribble on the floor folding down into itself: honey on the rocks; over granules. Honey on the dripping ends of the brush strands, ornamented with leaf brocade, bowed forward by the wind. Rough and tight salt-protected skin, creases and valleys. But mostly, in order to indicate things (as new as they were) it was necessary to point. There were no correct names to describe it. There were too many names to describe it. There was no single isolated object to be described. Everything was arranged to a hair in a fulminating order: we were situated inside the violently amber warmth of the green water, the slurry of pigments so immaculately laid down as I stood bearing witness to its burst into flower and stood bearing witness to the way it ran over my borders in the way that sections of watercolor on a smooth paper flow, revolutionary. Visemiachalhimhhlclpnisrolvilcmahrihmvisaamvdhinnmpnihmviamdmehryhm. 

The imagination could bound infinitely here. The depth and the breadth, the lightless worlds in the globulus eye of that womb of the world called the sea, in the globulus eyes of the seals and the crabs and the jellyfish and the seaweed and the anemones and the rocks and the sky and the dogfish and the cold shock of the water and the catching salt in the strands of our hair whipping back in the wind and the smooth wet of our skin and the  and the taught contortions of our flesh and writhing and writhing and writhing all together, running over our borders like sections of watercolor on a smooth paper flow, revolutionary. A warm, glacial moment. A still image. Stirring and writhing in the honey of everything else, trapped but affecting but warm. You know who you are and I know who I am but at the same time neither of us really know who I are and who you am, because inside of us and among us are the secrets of the universe.