a translation of the sea

who translates the sea?
who eavesdrops on it,
listening to its waves and what
they have to say about
the buoys they passed?
I listen to the sea,
that’s all I have left to listen to.
I listen to its waves
curl like commas,
only I translate the sadness
of its low tides, and the
perkiness of its high ones.
the sound of waves
breaking against the shore
or percolating far away from land
has a grammar, a watery syntax
that only I bother listening to.
I’m the only one the sea confides in.
it put little secrets in seashells
that it mailed to the shoreline,
but you didn’t pick them up.
only I listen to wind skipping
like a stone across the sea.
only I hear its islands confess
they want to float to the shore
and shatter against it like a dish.
the sea tells me it wants
to end its endlessness,
that even the perfume
of shipwrecks isn’t enough.