You blow there Willy..
on that blond hill, sheets pegged in the seabreeze
coloured or blank.. twenty-three I suppose,
clothing pinned where the wind could blow
on a washline, Willis' lonely rushing..
and we were taut in the skiff, S,
hair snatched and heads shiny,
white as clothing or net fish.
She calls something indistinct (over the tidal inlet
that year) and he rows
through several piers, miscues an oar stroke
and circles in a tiny circle as they beach..
Willis looks up and his rose shirt balloons