Forum:
https://harvardreview.org/book-review/frank-sonnets/
Sometimes I can feel it, what some call
beauty. I can see it, I swear, the conifers
and fat bees, ferns like church fans and then
the sea, its flatness as if pressed by stones
like witches were, the dark sand ridged
by tides, strewn with body parts, claws,
the stranded mesoglea of the moon jellyfish,
transparent blob, brainless, enlightened in its clarity.
I stand there, I walk the shore at low tide, the sky
fearless, not open to me, just open, there it is,
the wind, cold, surf's boom drowning out
thought, I can photograph it, I can name it
beautiful, but feel it, I don't know that I am
feeling it, when I drown in it, maybe then.
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