SERGE ON THE SURF

Someone called his name
out toward the waves. . .

his board through bay breakers roared,
pulled up and forward
by ripping winds
blowing up
the fabric of arching kite
puffed out in flight. . .

His black wetsuit
that skimmed his muscles
his face tense concentrated
and thrillingly engaged.

I, lingering back on beach,
perhaps gaped
in manner quite untoward
to see the way that
his whole being smiled
tossing in the cold but brilliant sun,

as I wondered how it would have felt
were I the one to take that ride

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