In roiled surf, at the influence of waves,
bobbed bodies shirk the gravity
of an apple's death and are bronzed
in shades from red haw to yellow
that will not wash off.
Waves break. Torsos are carried to sea
in a gala of waist high foam
and then are suddenly gobbled up
in the interim of absolutes.
Water folds onto the shore with the ire
of either a tectonic plate or a tablecloth.
Certainly the self becomes fat with brine,
by time and chance
we are exhaled on the ocean's breadth.
One's being necessarily will slip
beneath the waves,
it is as sure as when an old salt
carries on, curses and spits.
Yet for now each moment sees tempests
waived, between miracles and red flags
no one drowns.
About the author
Steven Goff, recently graduated from Drexel University, is a poet, playwright, and visual artist living in Philadelphia, PA who writes personal poems indicative of city life in the tri-state area as well as ekphrastic and literary leaning poetry.