Seaside, and the fragment of one running—
calves, ribs, green eyes into water.
There he goes. Waves. Buoying up
as into sky. And the seagulls fly,
seeing it as relief, a story. Once
they were there, two on a white blanket.
The circumference of a shadow.
Sunlight around that shadow.
The relation of two: bathers,
robed figures configured as one.
And she touches him—tender—and it is done.
(I’ve gone back to it. I’ve, I’ve—
it’s not where I am. I give it away again.)
You’re there. It’s still in the sand.
It’s trying to chisel it in.
How it comes forth: the story.
Wanting it, carving it down to vision.
Architecture, a coliseum of bent light,
the beautiful scatter of broken stones.
(And I can turn it into stones.)
Love, love: a portico, a labyrinth.
And his simple aquatics, legs and arms
in the brackish, etched against white fish.
The song, under there, of how he’ll leave,
and naturally, like all living things:
animals, summer, daylight for the eves.
And the buildings, all shadows and beings:
block, angels, curves. With the love,
memory of all loves. The pediments,