Sing the isle, that, veiled

beckons gently neath

the stagnant haze of June’s inferno

and loudly, like the sound waves beat

upon the coast

as they mix us in with plankton

and swiftly, as the schooners ply their course

and cormorants just lick the water

Like the speed at which we so quickly rush ashore

after they whistle at us when we paddle out

stroke after stroke

pushing Narragansett, the sound,

or whatever blocks the waves that roll

effortlessly, eternally

Without obligation

or definition.