You bent to pull your top, your arms so tan.
I watched you from the cliff at quarry cove.
Your bend of neck revealed, I felt like Pan,
his belly in the brush, and then you dove.
Your pointed feet were last to disappear.
Arising with a stroke, you blew out air,
driving through deepest blue, a grace like deer,
your legs like marble quavering, and bare.
And now, you’re up, on rocks made angular
by quarriers a century ago.
Around the curves that make you singular,
you work a towel along your torso’s flow.
My breathe is caught, to watch the liquid sparks
now vanish as you trace yourself in arcs.
Prose and poetry may be found in The Imaginative Conservative Bookstore.