THE CONVENIENCE STORE AT GREY POINT
Fifty feet away waves rise like thoughts
to smash against the rocks.
Somewhere beyond this place
there is a storm,
sending its waves
like an anonymous suggestion
that calm water would be so much less
without its opposite.
Inside, the lights buzz
and nothing changes color over time.
Sometimes a larger wave
shakes the air to a stiff shiver
and the cashier raises his head,
but the horizon remains
pretty much in place
and the cruelty of selling
unimportant things creeps along.
Smoothed by tedium and the subtle,
too close truth of the sea,
he will not sense the moment when
the waves begin to come from somewhere else.