Eric Forsbergh

Bathers, Dieppe by Erick Sickert

You bent to pull your top, your arms so tan.

I watched you from the cliff at quarry cove.

Your bend of neck revealed, I felt like Pan,

his belly in the brush, and then you dove.

Your pointed feet were last to disappear.

Arising with a stroke, you blew out air,

driving through deepest blue, a grace like deer,

your legs like marble quavering, and bare.

And now, you’re up, on rocks made angular

by quarriers a century ago.

Around the curves that make you singular,

you work a towel along your torso’s flow.

My breathe is caught, to watch the liquid sparks

now vanish as you trace yourself in arcs.

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