Pissing Contest

At the edge of the cape late in August,
with thoughts of autumn and school just starting
to curl about their ankles—as the first
thin, dark tendrils of the incoming tide
begin to lash around the rocks below—
two boys (still only the first loosely-tied
strands of memory time will stretch and knot
into the ragged nets we all become,
casting ourselves weighted with hope and doubt
in search of writhing gleams of certainty)
stand, shoulders swayed back to counter-balance
the thrust-forward hips sending golden arcs
hissing into emptiness. Their liquid
laughter, too, describes such parabolas.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
This entry was posted in Art is lies, Autumn, John MacKenzie, Mathematics, Memory, Neuroscience, New poems, Physics, Poem tweets, Poetry, Sonnet, South Shore, The Brain, The Sea, The Sky, Tide, Time and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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