right hand pointing

 

An exhausted night-swimmer, homebound,

 

drips a trail of lake down the county highway’s

 

shoulder. He’s only seen by gas truck drivers,

 

and a deputy on watch for greater weirdness. 

 

The one-player game: swim out

 

until return’s a major effort. This builds muscle,

 

lung power, it keeps the life-wish strong as hell.

 

This is how to love the shore again, the shore

 

which wants the night-swimmer back,

 

the halflife of memory 

 

pretty brief there in the tidal wash.