This seawood is just spool.
It’s green and long as a projector’s tongue. And the rock it’s on
seems plastic-knifed. Debowled, like an old VHS. It doesn’t work for me.
But then, suddenly, the sea arrives and edits the scene out, awkwardly
washing towards, replacing. I have my suspicions about the whole thing
and scan the horizon for junior curators. And parking.
Down a ways, my girlfriend plays at the tide while I find some paper
to put this on. She kneels and welcomes the water:
I think she’s sure I’m writing about her now, her body angled
so I may describe the ocean as it fleshes fresh her every part.
Is she checking if I missed that? It’s no problem, she can restart.
She raises her hand to a wave, the reception of her face stopped,
her arm stick and familiar (she beaming “Aerial!” I scribbling “Mop.”)
I’m fairly certain she’s not noticed the condom tangling near her slop.
I’ll wait for her to walk back.
replaces Art Critic at the BeachArt Critic at the BeachArt Critic at the Beach