The water roars over the swimmer's ears

like electric aircraft, like cars on streets
that pass by open windows, bypass fears
and arrive at home as Time repeats:
The waves are a maze, an endless ripple,
a faceless dream that replaces hard truths
on the nature of love which must cripple
the forward strides of magic, of our youths:
I mean, the nature of life, of which youths
in plural make up the shortest segment
but the sweetest one – my sweet saying sooths
the inner child after his leg bent:
A singular youth, though, can never die,
since renewed waters replenish the sky. 
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