the grass, something he couldn't see
thought he heard her call
might have been a gull
she frothing in the surf
more free than he
a year younger only
more boy than girl
a better swimmer, runner,
more popular than he could ever be
still that sound
in the back of his head
face full of grit
got to bury it, bury it
people out there to be saved
their bodies tossed by waves
and she nowhere to be seen
where could she be?
he strikes out with long strokes
finding the calm patch
where he saw her last
waves impersonal in their regularity
as if the whole ocean were a glyph
a sign for the dying
a home for the lost
© shaun patrick green 2013
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