at the poolside, on a damp-edged pad,
the pastel, fat in my hand,
stammered out the edge between sky and subject.

Between us hangs a gossamer of understanding.

(invisible forces
keep green the dracaena and its moss)

a wave arches its back against the sea cave within me,
trembles its coral walls, roars through it end to end.

Instead of a gift for the host, Fay brought with her an aroma—cinnamon and anise.

Like any place where tired people worked for little pay, there were corners of the shack that never got cleaned.

The artist does not wish to make a statement at this time.