Breaststroke

As he rowed a blush rose to vouch my lust,
impelling strokes skimmed the swell of an itch;
my mouth incubated a smile to draw
a veil across impious thoughts.
With his jutting jaw and sculpted hair
here was a god to accommodate prayer,
a body responsive to my enquiries.
A stubble-deep beauty, alas, empty
as this lake he navigates so smoothly.
No sense of irony or mirth, exquisite
until he found it incumbent to talk
of his car, of the gymnasium, of sport.
I must dive myself out of watery thoughts.
Splash! I break the brink. It’s swim or sink.