The storm-startled sea splashed space-ward,
rose above the stone walls and metal rails,
appeared to touch the low-hung dark clouds,
before the white-foam spray collapsed into
shiny reflections of those gray behemoths—
sky-whales fallen to the flat earth below.
Even as a bit of sun and blue breaks the mood
at an acute angle, we seek the intimacy of couples,
private moments in poetry, the inward gaze that
turns its back to the thunder, wind, rain, hail and,
mostly, to the terror invoked by the raw power
so easily capable of destroying us and all we know.
We took our children to the Old Port of Tel Aviv
to watch the predicted high waves roll in. He
took his backpack into a store, and when ready,
pulled out an Uzi, walked into the street shooting—
in the same city, not so far, not too close. We turned
our backs and walked away as the border police went
door-to-door, knocking at each apartment entrance.
The news reports that they broke in if no one answered.
He gave them the excuse, and they opened those
intimate places absent their owners, absent reason
or folly, as though a power of nature eroding rock,
splashing against our resistance. I want this poem to end,
to turn us into the spray, the wave, the sea.