Anyway, this is from the best class I had during my undergrad career -- last semester's Advanced Poetry. It's a sestina, which is like the Rubik's Cube of poetry forms. (Let's see if I still remember how to do a cut, shall we?)
August in Sestina
Sandy paths snaked through the great blonde
stalks of the wetlands, where your arm anchored firm and still
across my back. We walked far
enough for you to tell me that the inlet
we splashed through earlier was maybe
actually sewage and that you’d always
kind of disliked me, which of course ensured that we would always
be friends. Here we are so young and you – pale blonde
and fervent-skinned – were made for, maybe
even made from, this coastline – carved out of infinite stars sticking still
and tangled below your chest between breathing out and breathing in. Let
the red sun pop the sky like a vessel, splitting it deep and far
down the middle. In the glare I’ll follow you till we’re too far
out to stand, till the waves stop breaking, till blue unravels all ways—
under and above us. We built hips on this inlet,
floating on our backs, and in the distance dug for blonde
sandcrabs with savage grabbing fingers and patient palms. They scuttled, then were still.
We are twelve or maybe
seventeen—our growth plates fused here, and maybe
trapped within them bits of quartz and broken clamshells, so that this place is never far-
ther than your collarbone, your slinging wrist. Clouds suspend, hanging nearly still
above the lazy glimmering shore, but in fact they’re always
drifting, beyond our languid reeds and the dunes highlighted honey blonde
and silky platinum. Yellow sails too toss along the inlet
in broad certain bounds. At high tide on clear nights, the inlet
quivers into the bay, flooding the dock so we can stand up to our ankles or maybe
even our calves. Behind us, blonde
streetlights straighten the slouching town, extinguished only in the far-
off ascent of morning. I watch you sideways and wonder how you are always
so steady when these wooden planks tremble, when nighttime is never quite still.
You taught me about waves, how to flip into the break and hold my breathing still.
You belong to this inlet,
more than the chipped white lifeguard chairs and more than the echoes I’ve always
heard rustling down the coast (they make sounds like yes and sometimes maybe).
Listen well: don’t go so far
away. Here not even the sun is as blinding as your blonde.
We are some hard and narrow age. I am still blonde and we sculpt a miniature
golf course by the edge of the inlet – maybe so that someday, I’ll find it fits
into a poem about how I knew it would be you there at the far end of always.
I'm thisclose to registering for the Philly Marathon -- I'm already signed up for the half, and my ex-professor (which I suppose makes her my friend?) gave me the training program that she uses. She wants me to try to qualify for Boston, which is hysterical, but apparently Philly is almost completely flat. That makes me think it's slightly less impossible while still being totally impossible.