On a Sunday afternoon in August
I'm stretched out floating like a jellyfish
in the ocean at Crane's.
Sky azure, white cumulus anchored on the horizon,
water warm as a cat's purr.
Waves rock me side to side.
Through my eyelids the sun burns.
Gulls and terns call fish to surface.
Disembodied voices and music dance on shore.
If I could move I might find the bottom with my feet,
wade back in and fall under the reign of the sun
so near its zenith this time of year
in the northeast of North America.
Instead I remain suspended, belly up,
eyes closed to time, which goes by, I guess, without me.
As if I'd left my body behind and become
nothing more or less than thought
buoyant as a bubble in the air.