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.


Steven Goff