The Last Wednesday in August

It’s the last Wednesday in August and I’m
on the beach with my friend Branden Wallace,
watching him Eakins bare-assed by the receding tide.
He brings seashells and driftwood into flotsamy
dream formations pointing out directions
in a mindful but fleeting way. The distant hook
of New Jersey. Staten Island. Airports. Riis Park
to the left of us. Seagulls soar and horseshoe crabs
belch in big wriggles below. He kneels
and looks at the significance of each change
in his creation, gets up for perspective,
observing the chance materials that
figure the lines. We return
to the waves, chickenfighting with guys
on our shoulders. They capsize, limbs
flinging brine in the air; soon we'll be
gone and fall will bleach its stern
                       happiness
             into the sand.
                  We stretch out while the moon

is slowly released over the back dunes. Men
arrive for an evening’s private dispersal
of pleasure; the bay trees and beach plums
soak up their presence in a silvery haze. We forget
        about money and the hard call
    of Manhattan
until gravity sighs
    lifting us to the stars.

Perry Brass
August 26, 2009
Ft. Tilden, Queens, New York

[Note: Branden Charles Wallace is a sculptor and painter. For more info: http://www.brandenwallace.com