Below the Ceiling by Eric Sparks

I once took a walk,
from my house to the beach,
which was, as best as I can tell, remarkably similar
to the walks many people have taken
all across history, from their respective houses
to different beaches across the world.

Most of these people went to see the sea;
maybe for the water, or maybe for the sunlight dancing happily
on the roof of the sparkling ocean. Some of them
went to see the stars and the moon and perhaps
the misty clouds. The rest went to feel the sand and to take
the seashells, but tried to avoid the rocks beneath their feet.

But me, I walked out onto the ocean. And I’m
not saying I didn’t see the water beneath my feet,
or the sunlight lapping at my ankles; I definitely looked at the stars
above my head and watched the clouds wrap around
the moon in an intimate, albeit brief, embrace. I remembered
the sand between my toes and those rocks stabbing my feet
and the seashells lying on the beach. But me, I walked out onto
the ocean, just to look down, and maybe see the fish.