Thirty seconds of yellow lichen.

Thirty seconds of coil and surge,
fern and froth, thirty seconds
of salt, rock, fog, spray.

Clouds
moving slowly to the left?

A door in a rock through which you could see

another rock,
laved by the weedy tide.

Like filming breathing? thirty seconds

of tidal drag, fingering
the smaller stones
down the black beach
what color
was that, aquamarine?
Starfish spread

their salmon-colored hands.

I stood and I shot them.

I stood and I watched them right after I shot them: thirty seconds of smashed sea
while the real sea

thrashed and heaved?

They were the most boring movies ever made.
I wanted
to mount them together and press play.

Thirty seconds of waves colliding.

Kelp

with its open attitudes, seals
riding the swells, curved in a row

just under the water

the sea,
over and over.
Before it's over.

About this poem
"I was staying on a beloved part of the Northern California coast intending to write, but all I kept doing was taking 30-second videos of the sea. It seemed like such an absurd activity (the sea was right there!), but I was compelled. On the page I'd been troubling [over] our environmental future; perhaps the videos were little stays against the end."
-Dana Levin

About Dana Levin
Dana Levin is the author of "Sky Burial" (Copper Canyon Press, 2011). She teaches at Santa Fe University of Art and Design and lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

(c) 2014 Dana Levin.
Distributed by King Features Syndicate