The end of the ocean is easy to see.
It’s a line out there that ceases to move
Unlike its waves rushing towards ones feet.
Yet in the search to look over its edge
One acknowledges the paradox
The world is round
And the eye knows that,
If the horizon didn’t keep moving
As fast as you, in your endless pursuit.
To confirm its existence.
Sometimes with islands
And no longer smooth.
Sometimes with mountains or palm trees
When turning landward saves
The searcher from stultifying monotony.
As from the 23rd floor and a bristling pack
Of high rises obscuring the curvature
one counted on seeing.
Was all this economic business just a joke
giving those too busy to look
a laugh at the water cooler?
If you have any comments on this poem, L. Fullington would be pleased to hear from you.