We each struggle here our own way, trying to follow secret signs:

towels flapping in the wind, or a loose melody shaken from a saxophone,

or the shatter-crack of a  fist that punched wood siding

into kindling.  Old echoes, blood on the ground, even old scat

makes for easier hunting on these paths, ripples moving on leaves.

Grabbing an overfull inner tube, your secret wet head

emerges from the lake like a monster,  breath held to be expelled, 

arms up in a military press dunking one side of kid infantry

over the other’s rubber donut. All killers float on a raft of yells.

All summers die from what’s under the surface.

You were called by the sharkness, the shimmy fin-ness,

that buzzer of a beeline that stops for no flower,

gathering all the  tangled threads up and pulling,

yanking tuber roots up and yelling

with wonder and loathing at all the worms

and maggots and falling fungus beneath,

divining the earth spinning under us,

mouthful by mouthful.

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