Here is the ocean,
This great blue
Melting the coast.
A squirrel finds an apple
At the high tide line,
Runs toward a beach house
Mouthing its prize.
Seagulls huddle on shore
Pretending to be decoys.
Today, we do not age.
Men pushing fifty
Play horseshoes in the sand.
Bikini girls
Play the shallows—
Legs, arms, hands
Honeyed in sun
Beckon from the oily water.
I hear ghosts speaking in waves
But cannot understand
What they’re saying.
They speak all at once,
Like a room full of people
Chattering at a party.
A set becomes music
And then I recognize
Rachmaninoff.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem