Row along, children, nothing to see here,
it’s not an oar that floats in the seaweed
but a branch, slender as hope,
that stifled cry was a gull—
how much time have I spent reassuring you?
probably not enough;
a beached boy lying face down is not a boy,
but a large doll,
waves turn his face
from the pitiless sun,
keep his blue shorts on,
one last kindness.