The Artist

I am the one who stacks on bleached logs

cairns of smooth pebbles

and leave, in my wake,

fleeting spirals in the sand

Footprints glimpsed for a moment

before the tide comes in


With a stick

I write


in the sand

and below that

ten other words

That mean the same


I watch the girl

long tan doe legs folded

hands burrowing the sand

And trace the contours of her shoulder blades,

the flecks of freckles across her back,

and shade each hollow

the vertical range of vertebrae

revealed in sharp definition beneath her top

And later that night on canvas

her last look,

smeared and abstract


Beautiful girl

I hold your heart

(in a jar on my desk)

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