Axis

And then there is the sea,
the matte grey
of the Pacific
filling the horizontal 

axis of our vision,
no space for clouds
only the white of clouds,
remembered. 

In San Francisco,
this water had called us
out of our rooms,
out of our lives,

its cold darks
tugging at our ankles.
There were birds, of course,
and the setting sun: 

say that the birds
were white, grey-white, perhaps;
say that the sunset
was a red no chemist 

could titrate easily
we would be unable
to corroborate any of it.
Nothing could distract us 

from where the ground
ended, our cameras charting
the cliffside as it disappeared
into depth and sea foam.