The boy lies there
Cold wet dark sand the color of his skin
in August is
hard underneath him.
Waves cruise under him
First full force against the flats of his feet like a slap
Then the trickle
past his hamstrings
up to his groin and his bottom.
The larger waves curl up and down
the back of his waistband and his now slightly loose Speedo.
His hands have been numb for a while now
But his feet--they are at a higher altitude above the wet sand--
remain painfully, shockingly sensile
Burning, almost, every time another wave
hits them, then mourning it
when it leaves.