Waves, like wild and foaming stallions, paw
the air, then leave their spittle on the sand
where bathers lie—a sea of limbs—a hand,
a foot—protruding like a lobster claw.
Clouds laces the velvet sky, a Valentine card
for lovers wrestling, writhing, roiling, ignoring
the crowd, rock music bruising the air, the boring
conversation of married couples. The hard
brown muscles of the lifeguard in his aerie
ripple in the sun. Reclining women
ogle him and pull their stomachs in.
The men play ball, their bodies soft and hairy.
Half-eaten sandwiches attract the flies.
Gulls plunge into the sea like roller coasters.
Girls in bikinis—the kind you see on posters—
stroll by. They’re ravished by a hundred eyes.
Children in tight, flamboyant bathing suits
pummel the water, float on rafts and teach
themselves to swim. Umbrellas dot the beach.
The sun’s hot fingers reach for new recruits.
Mary Engelberg