The Swimmer

It seemed as if, your entry, was a way
Water inhaled you into the lane.
 
You stretched your arm muscles a while, I noticed
Between consecutive laps, and started shortly after –
 
An alternans of eager strokes; the freestyle,
The butterfly, your palms fixed with intent,
 
Your moves, perfectly chiseled;
Each motion, seeming
 
Premeditated, duly purposeful. I observed,
Through the eyes of my damp goggles,
 
Spouts of water climbing soft steps of air
Then falling back down; disappearing, later, 
 
Into a chest of currents. Your breaths,
On each count of three, blown out on opposites,
 
Feeding thrill to my ears. I imagined the pink
Of your lungs darkening with each routine of stroke.
 
Most impressive, though, the motions of your legs –
Bouncing along the gouge of waves, or at times
 
Slicing through the underbelly of water,
Like nervous blades of scissors.