On Swimming

The rivers of this country are sweet

as a troubadour’s song,

the heavy sun wanders westward

on yellow circus wagons.

Little village churches

hold a fabric of silence so fine

and old that even a breath

could tear it.

I love to swim in the sea, which keeps

talking to itself

in the monotone of a vagabond

who no longer recalls

exactly how long he’s been on the road.

Swimming is like a prayer:

palms join and part,

join and part, almost without end.