The sky crystal blue, without blemish.
Skin salted by sun and sand.
As lovers of the beach we went swimming,
and found each other submerged for fun.
Splashing fountains of celebration and eddies of happiness.
In the flow.

We wrapped in towels and dried in the ideal air,
walking along the edge of surf going nowhere.
Then sat to read a book that gently lulled you to sleep
under our patch of umbrella—the book sat on your chest.

Through the calm shade of sunglasses I defaulted
to the bliss and daydreamed.
Everything here seems dramatic.
The sunlight bathed in deeper colors.
Umbrellas are straightforward truths.
Work is a thousand miles away.

But the sea, the wonderful, primitive, tireless
blossoming sea is beyond beauty or description.
You can begin to understand Ishmael’s fascination.
Perhaps it was always something else, beyond measure
and the rasp of duty that otherwise claim attention,
like the rich power of creation replete
with an androgynous element.

Tomorrow will welcome us back again,
free from the world’s gross consensus
when I have to play detective—what does he want?
What does she want, same for my boss,
while trying to avoid the burning gossip.

We’re two watertight hearts wrapped in love
at summer’s end in the middle of a beautiful day
attending to each other. You said you loved me.
And I, like you, try to give it another voice.
I bask in a secret warmth where all is fortified and innocent.
An island where we are safe and all is known,
before the chill wind of fall.
“That’s it,” love doesn’t change.
There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

Stephen Cipot

Garden City Park