by William Meredith
     Here at the seashore they use the clouds over & over
     again， like the rented animals in A？da.
     In the late morning the land breeze
     turns and now the extras are driving
     all the white elephants the other way.
     What language are the children shouting in？
     He is lying on the beach listening.
     The sand knocks like glass， struck by bare heels.
     He tries to remember snow noise.
     Would powder snow ping like that？
     But you don't lie with your ear to powder snow.
     Why doesn't the girl who takes care
     of the children， a Yale girl without flaw，
     know the difference between lay and lie？
     He tries to remember snow， his season.
     The mind is in charge of things then.
     Summer is for animals， the ocean is erotic，
     all that openness and swaying.
     No matter how often you make love
     in August you're always aware of genitalia，
     your own and the half-naked others'.
     Even with the gracefulest bathers
     you're aware of their kinship with porpoises，
     mammals disporting themselves in a blue element，
     smelling slightly of fish. Porpoise Hazard
     watches himself awhile， like a blue movie.
     In the other hemisphere now people
     are standing up， at work at their easels.
     There they think about love at night
     when they take off their serious clothes
     and go to bed sandlessly， under blankets.
     Today the children， his own among them，
     are apparently shouting fluently in Portuguese，
     using the colonial dialect of Brazil.
     It is just as well， they have all been changed
     into small shrill marginal animals，
     he would not want to understand them again
     until after Labor Day. He just lays there.