No perspective kept its distance long
In that world we were planning on leaving,
Shortly. It was hard, when everything was
Conspiring either to be awful or gorgeous
Or both in superposition, to accept that this
Was not in any way important, except insofar
As every wave could be said to be important.
When a swimmer turned his head he gasped
Ahead of a mouthful of green water; when
He turned his face into the depths he saw
Streams of airy bubbles lit gold by sunset
Emerging from his pulling hands, his fingers
Like wands in the water. But he did not dive.
I did not see him dive, not this time. He
Swam, back to the stony beach where sticks
Were being rearranged by his progeny
Into lean-to forts and imaginary housing.
He had not gone far, not far out at all,
Not this time, neither waving nor drowning.
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