Lifeguard Robert Farnsworth

after Tomas Transtromer

From the whitewashed Weathered dock in shining Wind, into the shifting Swell of coinage sun Makes of the sea, my sons Are diving. I mean to keep This picture of them.

*

Beyond the peninsula, toward its talon of breakwater, Glides the tall sloop’s reaching mainsail, a furtive steeple Above the trees.

The actual requires us in its effort to be.

One dive after another, stitching water to wind.

Then the entire boat appears, loudly comes about, and whispers away.

*

Swaying six i nches in its U-joint, one warm, smooth piling kneads my bare shoulders.