Men Blur

There were ice chests to lift and muscles to grapple with.

Cliffs as well.  Men stream, muscles and haloes,

and blur.  Horseshoes and triceps.  Muscles that knot.

In August, the white ball above, a furious blot plot 

high, will shimmer enough as to cause 

the emerald to soon lose half its volume.  

On boats tethered together like dogs out for a stroll, 

men blur.  Boats stall.  Gyrations, hollering, inebriations. 

Locking mouths together as underfed fish to hooks,

lips find nooks in muscle that has turned colors

like leaves disintegrating into stubble.  Men blur.  On this 

choppy sheet of green, men float and blur.

That emerald:  misshapen, murky thing, 

an irregular watery gem whose cut 

none other may mimic, illuminates my trek, 

then, from the cover of thistle, where after giving time 

with J., we are cuffed and dragged off by police.  

Indecencies and an aching overtakes my foot.  

It all blurs:  house, job, colleagues.

Only the jag of limestone knows this aching part of the foot.