Day At The Beach, 1968

The pail and the shovel are tin
and the tin,
sitting in the sun
is too hot too touch,

the grape jelly oozing from between

slices of plain, store-bought white bread
is flecked with dry flakes of glass
from the sand,

standing in the Sound squinting at the light
I drank the cold water
and now it pulls my stomach
in,

the pale legs stretching down beneath me
are burning red,
the almost blue virtue of baby skin
blistering and sizzling away.