Rhode Island

　　by William Meredith

　　 Here at the seashore they use the clouds over & over

　　 again， like the rented animals in A？da.

　　 In the late morning the land breeze

　　 turns and now the extras are driving

　　 all the white elephants the other way.

　　 What language are the children shouting in？

　　 He is lying on the beach listening.

　　 The sand knocks like glass， struck by bare heels.

　　 He tries to remember snow noise.

　　 Would powder snow ping like that？

　　 But you don't lie with your ear to powder snow.

　　 Why doesn't the girl who takes care

　　 of the children， a Yale girl without flaw，

　　 know the difference between lay and lie？

　　 He tries to remember snow， his season.

　　 The mind is in charge of things then.

　　 Summer is for animals， the ocean is erotic，

　　 all that openness and swaying.

　　 No matter how often you make love

　　 in August you're always aware of genitalia，

　　 your own and the half-naked others'.

　　 Even with the gracefulest bathers

　　 you're aware of their kinship with porpoises，

　　 mammals disporting themselves in a blue element，

　　 smelling slightly of fish. Porpoise Hazard

　　 watches himself awhile， like a blue movie.

　　 In the other hemisphere now people

　　 are standing up， at work at their easels.

　　 There they think about love at night

　　 when they take off their serious clothes

　　 and go to bed sandlessly， under blankets.

　　 Today the children， his own among them，

　　 are apparently shouting fluently in Portuguese，

　　 using the colonial dialect of Brazil.

　　 It is just as well， they have all been changed

　　 into small shrillmarginal animals，

　　 he would not want to understand them again

　　 until after Labor Day. He just lays there.

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