Hanlan's Point, Sunday Afternoon

The wrack left by the flood,

and the far end of the beach gone,

no telling just where our towels lay
in other seasons. Now only
a few wading out
past the fallen trunks, then back again
into shore, and the shallow nooks
screened by half-submerged branches or open
to the lapping water’s gaze--
explorers beyond crowds glad
for another gifted day’s extension
of summer’s lease; seekers approaching
land’s end and wider freedom
in hope of something closer
to astonishment.
Which manifests
as a man standing chest-deep in ecstasy
and cradling the face
of the comerado who kneels
before him in the sand, enfleshment
of abandoned devotion.
Sheltered,
the two of them, by sunlight
and open water, by witness
of silent passersby,
their holiness balanced precariously
on this spit of land.