Thursday, September 25, 2014

I heard this poem on The Writer's Almanac and knew it was just right for this time of year. 
It's by Jonathan Galassi and appears in his book Left-Handed (Alfred A. Knopf, 2012). 

The last swim of summer 
ought to be swum
without knowing it,
afternoon lost to
re-finding the rock

you can stand on
way out past the
raft, the flat one
that lines up four-
square with the door
of the boathouse.

Freestyle and back-
stroke and hours on
the dock nattering
on while the low sun
keeps setting fin-
gers and toes getting
number and number ...
how could we know
we were swimming the
last swim of summer?

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