Is nothing real but when I was fifteen，
Going on sixteen， like a corny song？
I see myself so clearly then， and painfully
Knees bleeding through my usher's uniform
Behind the candy counter in the theater
After a morning's surfing； paddling frantically1
To TOP the brisk outsiders coming to wreck2 me，
Trundle me clumsily along the beach floor's
Gravel3 and sand； my knees aching with salt.
Is that all I have to write about？
You write about the life that's vividest.
And if that is your own， that is your subject.
And if the years before and after sixteen
Are colorless as salt and taste like sand
Return to those remembered chilly4 mornings，
The light spreading like a great skin on the water，
And the blue water scalloped with wind-ridges，
Andwhat was it exactly？that slow waiting
When， to invigorate yourself， you peed
Inside your bathing suit and felt the warmth
Crawl all around your hips5 and thighs6，
And the first set rolled in and the water level
Rose in expectancy7， and the sun struck
The water surface like a brassy palm，
Flat and gonglike， and the wave face formed.
Yes. But that was a summer so removed
In time， so specially8 peculiar9 to my life，
Why would I want to write about it again？
There was a day or two when， paddling out，
An older boy who had just graduated
And grown a great blonde moustache， like a walrus10，
Skimmed past me like a smooth machine on the water，
And said my name. I was so much younger，
To be identified by one like him
The easy deference11 of a kind of god
Who also went to church where I didmade me
Reconsider my worth. I had been noticed.
He soon was a small figure crossing waves，
The shawling crest12 surrounding him with spray，
Whiter than gull13 feathers. He had said my name
Without scorn， just with a bit of surprise
To notice me among those trying the big waves
Of the morning break. His name is carved now
On the black wall in Washington， the frozen wave
That grievers cross to find a name or names.
I knew him as I say I knew him， then，
Which wasn't very well. My father preached
His funeral. He came home in a bag
That may have mixed in pieces of his squad14.
Yes， I can write about a lot of things
Besides the summer that I turned sixteen.
But that's my ground swell15. I must start
Where things began to happen and I knew it.
