Swim Thursday

Three hundred, seventy-nine thousand, six hundred
angry miles ago. Daybreak’s shady water and
cool sand, to swim Thursday
in the shadow of Diamond Head.

Swimming metronome strokes,
with pearly drops running over his back.
To swim Thursday among the
reverberating reeds of lost days.
His one day off, the only day on
the day worth waking for.

The broken man, streaming in a Möbius strip lap,
an encompassing oval ablution.
Chill splashes on his hot asphalt brain,
sizzled with Costello imagery, and on his
bacon bit heart, a leathered core
with charred edges.

To swim Thursday the path of a known lap,
full breaths displacing howling emptiness
of every other day.

 

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