waves tipping white, milked-out coast--
alabaster dashed on stone.
Pulse thumps time to brine, to spray.
Steers its own circuitous route.
Drunken critics stagger bluffs,
note milky struggle, cheer your craft
spinning mad outside the surf. They
don't know it's you, but if they do
prefer Juan de Fucan wind
to foundered dinghy, one choked oar.
Circle widening, white wake in foam
choice or choosing: surf or stone.