We aim to steal a shadow
on the blasted sand
of Palmachim Beach,
as we step on seashells
which, for one or two breaths,
threaten to slice
our sand-grabbed soles,
but unlike the bared
honesty of others’ flesh
they hardly achieve offense:
Those barrelled chests
and guts would never grace
the fussy covers of Vogue.
With the quick whistle blow,
and planting of black flags,
the surf is taken from bathers
by overly-fit young men,
bare but for matched shorts,
that uniform of angels,
who sit high in their tower,
above us wave-cut mortals.