Surf Mechanics
Take one look at this woman more than chin-deep
in the blue Pacific — blue past the braids of foam
that skir against our bite-peppered ankles —
no thought beyond the stretching skip of palms
that rise and plunge on the ocean. Deliberate churning
stroke of a lifelong swimmer straight against the breaking waves.
Photographic flash of the sun and thunder heard through
a fog horn — whole body taut and pliant as the tide ordains.
If we were in St. Louis, each of us leaning against a leg
of that train-colored gateway to the West, I would whisper
something right that only you could hear, conveyed by lucky
accident of engineering. I don’t know if this is true myself —
but the notion makes good copy from eighteen hundred
miles away. Now look at how she’s changed her stroke,
about to edge out of our view.