Either it is an Atlantic wind that swims
or in his fountain at the gardens’ heart
my father ripples north and south.

Shameless how he spills over the marble.

As he could not on his back at that beach
hear the lifeguard—

“Will all swimmers
for fear of rising tides
please exit the water?
Will the oblivious father
with his pale son
please exit the water?”

—now he cannot hear his life.

The miscreant among the urchins
dip their toy guns in the fountain,
spray each other through the cypresses.

He ripples.

Were I deaf as he
and as wanting for dignity,
if I chose I, too, could swim
wherever I pleased after my life:
except that I do not please.