The Wave

The wave is coming.
I am tracking how the white is gathering at the tips.
Studious and serene,
I flow.
Up and over.

The wave is coming.
My line of sight is to the white, but time has shifted and
I am too much away from the Sea.
Buckled and submerged.

The wave is coming.
Fighting to stand and feel sun on my nose,
I master gravity.

Immediately
Hit
Again.

And
Again.

Torn asunder.

Again.

Since permanent encampment on the shore is
a worse death than drowning,

holding your breath for so long
for too long

becomes the way you breathe.