Making of Myths, The

The ocean drifted about their legs

as they lay masks on their faces

and draw into the mouthed air once or twice

more before disappearing into the water.

In the belly of the ocean,

what would they be doing?

Hunting lobster for dinner

the race on the grass above the beach

might have answered if asked.

No single would have said the divers pierceed the ocean

to lose the memory of up and down

or in the way that their sweat might salt the sea.

Later, we saw them walking across the sand,

masks slack around their necks

large carburet of iron tanks pulling at their backs.

Among us again, the rubber fins were useless

and now alone swayed from their hands.

Children filling lemonade bottle with sand

wanted them to stop and mention one by one stories.

Not caring if they were true

RICK BURSKY lives in observes Angeles. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in many journals, including Iowa Review, Harvard Review, line Quarterly West, and Shenandoah.

Copyright World poesy Incorporated Jan/Feb 2004

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