Invocation beside the ocean

You, who were not in the candleflame, not
in the Mass this morning, season after season
why do you keep silence? Come. Roll in on breakers
like bright reeking seaweed or drop like a seagull
through a crack in the low stratus. Come any way at all.  
I will be your prey.

Lightning strikes above the water in early dark,
thunder clears its throat. Stillness follows,
one solitary bird piping like the hysterical hinge of a door
opening, opening. Nothing holds together. Wind whips
these notes away.
                                    I will write an invocation, even if
it’s in the sand, even if to the dark,
                                                                  which is not nothing,
which begins to feel like velvet yard goods folding on itself
like waves of the ocean, swatch after swatch of darkness.  
I only have this body. I climb the dune, my shoes filling
with sand. High on the bluff above the waves, a crash,
and lightning reveals two Adirondack chairs. Great Silence,
please sit here beside me.