The Surfers

Their arms swing like windmills,
friction free, disproving grade school
texts which denounce any theory of
perpetual motion.  The surfers cling
to their boards like scholars their books. 
If waves were words, surfers would read
the dictionary from cover to back    and,
upon arriving at Zurich, would stare
at the azimuth horizon, yet dissatisfied,
pressing the ocean for one more walled
utterance—a salted syllable, a wet grunt,
anything working its way back to shore.

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