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The Merry Game of

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.

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