The Merry Game of Floundering
Passing blue dump-truck grouper
on his way to the job,
while above, in old arching currents
fast jacks streak by—not to be merged with.
Not on a summer’s day
when shadows dapple the sands,
spotlighting here a checkered crab, there a
red-roofed coral inviting a safe defecation
and a nibble, idling in her shade.
Then pulling out slowly, finning the bottom flow
like a palm lazily held out a window just for buffeting;
oh, the lovely draft! Now pulling, now pushing
ever-so-gently here below
where sand abounds for parking
and camouflage is cheap.
It is a sin to weep salt tears
over skewed eyes that see strange,
yet well enough
to tell a shark from a puffer
and a fish-hook from a walking worm.
More information about formatting options