Boy with a Flute
Ankles in sand,
goats nose the salt air,
bells stumble against
the thin breath of reed.
A woman wheels past—
hair a sudden banner,
refusal swift as wind.
The goats turn too.
Desire rehearses itself:
first glance,
first quickening,
beauty always ahead.
Still he plays,
as if breath could bind
what wheels carry away.
Sea steady,
trail empty,
music lingering—
a claim on what recedes.
.
