You’re not exactly a boy,
perhaps, a young man fresh
from college —are you here
for the season? Is this what
you call your summer gig—you
dancing, twirling around in the sand
in your red shirt, baggy black
pants, your goateed chin in the air.
It’s not as if we wouldn’t have
noticed that pointed beard had
it not been jabbing the sky
as you leap in the air.
From where does your joy
spring on this dark rainy day?
Did someone say yes to
the question you almost
dared not ask? Is the lone
swimmer now crawling
with earnest to shore
coming to you?
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