Seriously, then casts me a grave look.
A woman wades along reading a book,
Surf tugging at her legs. And the gulls screech,
And a girl makes a staggering run and reach
For a frisbee through a haze of charcoal smoke
Sharp-scented in the cool air, from a nook
Under the cliff s. We brown and burn and bleach.
And the sober sun, half through the afternoon,
Throws iris-leaf shapes, and squarish glares of light
Along the rollers, sends a quick-sliding thread
Of light along a crest, and overhead
Makes on a softball on its climbing fl ight
In the blue, a tiny daytime quarter moon.
Among various types down here for the sunset;
The unlovely public -- whatever it is creates
Us bungles us.... And no colors as yet;
The scuff ed-up sand shines gray where it is wet.
The place seems idly jostled, by the gazes
And glances of all these folk, their grunts and phrases.
On the bright gray they bulk in silhouette.
With these things written as I pleased I feel
The doubts crowd in (like a real crowd, watching me