Thomas Wells Poet Free verse

The Swimmer

Rock beach of
chasms.
A man is pale dough
standing in sand.
Shimmer owns his
toes in a flurry of foam,
then withdraws.
He watches for a cue
in a sky of cotton ships
when a clam swallows
all his theories.
Running thunder into
frigid arcs, he is eyeless.
His arms extended,
a child to his mother
until his figure dispels
in the motion of curved glass.

Anonymous inside the 
texture of a shadow,
deepening into aquatic blank.
Deeper, his nostrils drink arrows.
Deeper, his eyes open to films
of green bleeding blue.
He finds a secret madness
like forgetting at the bottom,
in granules of thick sand,
in nowness totally pressurized,
in the dislodging of a cornerless dream,
while bubbles volley from his lips.

Then he is up in the rise of brushing swirls,
the sun quivering through
the looking glass above. 
Identity pounds his lungs.
Birth against the surface,
he becomes the heave of wind
from a glossy face.
But he keeps plummeting,
for a pearl that keeps changing,
a luster he can't keep,
a capture escaping.

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