He isn’t a good swimmer
and pauses before sinking
his toes into the absence of stone
The quarry is cold, even late
in August. it requires
a decision to act,
to flex thighs to crouch
calves to spring
arms to fly into the impassive air.
He vaults, crazy for want
of the solid wall and finds
himself, touched, on all sides.
Straining to the familiar
light, the panic breaks, he
watches his hand crawl before him
to stir the air, make way
for his lusting breath, and settle
more appreciative on his skin.
Down there, they watch
his gentle recovery portrayed–
dare complete, absent the scene,
so he waits till they leave,
shivering, to consider
another test of faith.