That’s the life:
the sunset petting the swayback boat
and the beach a pinch of turmeric.
Scan the bay for tension; even the sail
tucked into the mast
looks like icing round the rounds of cakes
they must be washing down
with sparkling wine in white linen,
or off-white linen, their legs
straight as spars,
their faces forward-facing, triangular flags
minus the ping of pulleys
being beaten by west-going winds.
Like Dante, we get tongue-tied in heaven:
on waves of celestial music. They surf.
Everyone is free, bound for nowhere.