I.

An isthmus, land bridge, mottled sand

flanked by shore, fixed

               in the gray-between,

purgatorial. What if the ideal

does not exist?

         Only endless ebb

and flow, the wild animal trapped inside, longing

never abated.

         The tide, after receding,

returns. One soul wavers between conflicting wills.¹

To learn to live alongside hunger,

                     grow accustomed

to the discordant mind, repetition

of the waves,

         diminishment of shore.

II.

Coquina—broken shell and calcite bonded

over millennia. Water

             breaks, erodes. Lash of waves,

insatiable surf—the sea was ravenous. I envied

the ocean’s determination,

                 not its indulgence.

How to divide the two? Like a crested wave

the spirit splinters. The will, torn

                     in two by the weight

of its troubles.² How long it took

to quell this craving.

              Would it be false

to claim the animal is tamed when I still feel

its thirst,

      pull of the tide, the undertow.

¹ From Augustine’s Confessions (8.10.23).

² From Augustine’s Confessions (8.10.24).