I can tell you about something-
A glossy swimming hole,
where we swing and read
Shore-side, skipping rocks that ping
or splash in tandem with the jokes.
Eight hours of work forgotten,
as quickly as flat stones
sink, brushing along the smooth silt at the bottom,
rolling with the crayfish.
A fisher on the opposite bank reels in his cast
slowly, mimicking the jitter of the water-bug's gait.
My friend pages through Frank O'Hara
even though Williamsburg is the punch-line for everything,
and New York is one hundred miles away.
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