I am addicted to swimming in the Pacific.
A perpetual wader, knee deep was as far as I once would go.
I float out now.
My feet cannot touch the sea floor.
At the mercy of rolling and crashing and saltwater up my nose,
Headfirst – thrust up and back – I completely surrender control.
Had I this addiction from arrival in Venice,
I might not have had sex with the wrong sort;
Like the the suicidal Indiana Catholic and the stress shattered Israeli SEAL;
Or, the divided and severed, monumentally insane, Argentinian guitarist.
Oceans hold more than weak men.
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