Not watching my watching

toward the east of all
of you: my watching is delicate, young

my age, too, young and my language
yes, young, but my description of the

white water atop blonde sand in the eventual clarity
of this summer’s promissory heat—

and those adults on the boat, their joyfulness
wearing fancy suits and fedoras, their position

farther atop the water’s blending into blue
resembles above me, this ceiling of Saturday’s

clear and tonal sophistication, and though
none of your actions understand the silence

of my watching, my enjoyment is a catalogue
of contemplation among this beach of tonal appreciation