Brighton Beach in August

The sand doesn't get hot until noon.
We spread our sheet in a spot still
untouched by human bodies.

I don't want sunblock; you don't
want sunburn, but it's still too early
for even the brightest star to be fully awake.

We swim like tangled jellyfish. We try
to propel ourselves forward as one
entity, drifting farther toward the deep.

I can't stand out there; don't carry me,
don't carry me out, I beg and plead
so you go it alone and I watch.

But now I feel like a starfish
waiting to grow back an arm.