Thud of the brass cannon
passed through us
and they headed for the red
can buoy, and soon,
on the far side of the bay,
seemed rooted, eelgrass patches
against the sandstrip beach
except when sun
like a struck match
flared off an oar flat.
We measured the miles
in small talk and blue-greens,
green-blues the sea
shuttled itself through,
sliding toward fall,
tossing up a sandal
or a compact the current
or current-keepers had opened
like a bivalve and licked
to the corners of its
pastel trays—proof
the sirens’ season was over.
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