“That ocean,” said Marvell (and meant the mind).
To be half-right is not exactly wrong,
for though the ocean functions as a kind
of hidden wellspring for the careless throng,
there is in fact the land with air and light,
receiving, like an artist, what it’s dealt,
transforming that into a holy rite
at which a bronze-age human would have knelt.
But rites should have a reason that makes sense.
A round and knobby planet without spine,
and lacking verbal person, mood or tense,
reflects on outer space its modest shine.
Here is reason, although logic is still mute.
It rises through the ether as dispute.
John J. Brugaletta is the first member of his family to finish high school and then three degrees from universities. He is now professor emeritus at California State University, Fullerton, where he edited South Coast Poetry Journal for ten years. He lives with his wife on the redwood coast of California.