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About This Poem
Steamers
The water is soft, and warm
salted sweetly like dew on bronze skin.
The boat at anchor rocks, a babe in a summer sea.
The water accepts us, frail humans that we are
each rise of silken sand beneath the waves a bosom of delight.
Suited, belieing the au natural moment, we wade cloaked.
Legs and arms receiving puritanical society’s permission to be bare
wave and waver beneath and through the still blue sea.
Toes, curl and prod seeking dinner.
The water in its abundance yields, each mollusk’s breath rises
a stream of silver bubbles exhaled marking the bed
leading the dinners to their diner fare.
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