By: Steve Deutsch

I have never
been one
to dive in.
At Brighton Beach
I’d shuffle
seaward,
slow as silt,
while other children
screeched
into the ocean
at a gallop,
more race horse
than human—
faces shocked
from whoa to joy

Can joy
come slowly?

Does delight
ever descend,
thick as honey,
on the timid
among us?
Those
keepers
of butterflies
who greet
opportunity
with a stammer
and a shrug.

Does it
sneak up
on those
of us
who research
the obvious,
elbows deep
in sacred
texts
while just
outside
the shadow
of the library
lions
the sun
is bright
and people
cross
the avenue
without
looking
both ways?

I wrestle
with
the puzzle—
pleasure
or peril,
while
you
walk
with great
determination,
away.