I just make out the buoy and the boy who reaches it, a blond spot at the red uncapsizeable hat, gone past the continent’s
Fridays, too, I’d lie on a beach towel within an umbrella’s flood-shadow at the Marion Municipal Pool. My mother chain-smoked in gray hometown air,
When my young son asks, What’s a mushroom? I tell him his face, his belly, his thighs. I touch each spongy part of him