Scene at a Beach: Hyperion’s Woman
Mosquitoes were heavy that year. He took
precautions, shifting concerns while he drank
a glass of bourbon straight, resisting fast
the currents of the afternoon winds. Next,
he nearly drifted to sleep, with the wind lashing
against his hand, but eyes, heavy as lightning,
will lift at times, and what did his drowsing eyes
engage but Mandy tanning, fierce as the sand
falling off between her toes. But he
digressed as her name isn’t Mandy. She
just looked like Mandy, strange as that may sound;
life is mysterious that way sometimes,
but he again returned with random thoughts
and furtive looks. “Look how pneumatic the scene
appears as the sun sinks with subtle slides
into the ocean distance and the hot winds
continue lapping up the patterned sweat
formed from the subtle motion of clothed skin!”
He downed the drink and slept with leveled eyes
as myth returned in little moments. “The sun
will touch with longing of hot breaths, but who
cares when the moment brandishes refulgence
like city skylines stripped to neon lights
and a heat ascendant while club drifters dance.”
The sand still burns, and the sun drowns when done,
so, woman, sift the rays with a returned kiss
and embrace the marks for the last hours of light
as you turn over in tribute one more time.

Christopher Fried

If you have any thoughts about this poem, Christopher Fried  would be pleased to hear them