a bad batch

a wave arches its back against the sea cave within me,
trembles its coral walls, roars through it end to end.
soft flotsam batters the living stone that girds it.

what drives its pummeling force? unchangeable tides
decreed from far above. all I can do is wring my hands
to weather the roil—a useless act against the churn.

I have polluted the cave and it demands to be clean.
inside me, a great groaning. I watch the wave arc out,
run down the sides of the ceramic bowl, and disappear.