Note to the Pacific

Nothing to speak of.
A few small rocks,
brown of course,
some slippery strands
of your worst weeds.
Just one whole shell all month
you give up to the shore—
oh yes, those plumes, too,
that disappear off waves
twisting and rushing to nowhere.
You hoard your capacity—
queen conchs and whelks,
cones past your breakers,
your treacherous rocks—
as though daring me
to swim to the Aleutians,
where you bring your winds from,
to see there’s nothing there,
if ever there was you made sand
out of it, in your ancient practice.
You think it isn’t possible
to be taken for some slight force?
Big and strong isn’t what it used to be.
Give us more than a cracked claw,
a transparent tentacle.
You could be a serious sea.