Your St. Christopher had tangled in your chest hair
and I offered to help you free him from that.
We were playing gin and tossing the discards
like scarlet ships upon the ocean's swells. Then
some bullies kicked sand in our faces, thus enlivening
our simple repast; the cries, the screams, the attentive
gulls. All we wanted was to be young and to stand
naked with them all, knowing what we know now
on the uprising and gleefully animated beach—
small, pale nipples on the men, the thickened hips
the girls swung about, beach balls, and a few grains
of sand enough to satisfy our chasmed modesties.
rdking