It was like: he said I love you and she thought he’s dying.

          “Skin filming.”

 

 

 

When the automobile arrived the change of action set.

          “Swirl.”

 

 

 

A denouement any writer would have coveted.

          “You You You.”

 

 

 

His body was the climactic object disembodied in the sand.

          “Spinning dots. Flickering.”

 

 

 

His body was not his as when he met it close to the beginning.

          “Froth.”

 

 

 

His body alerted other bodies that trouble appeared and was rapidly approaching.

          “Black locks, squirm.”

 

 

 

The story appropriately attentive at this devastating moment.

          “Flying hand, lips.”

 

 

 

The story appropriated the beach and paged the rapid sequence as occurring.

          “My life, is this?”

 

 

 

The story begged the question of whether it was appropriate to present myth.

          “From wedlock, green, she shines watering.”

 

 

 

The story thought should marriage be a principal factor in the impending plot.

          “I’m sorry. I’m…”

 

 

 

The story thought again and said “too sanctimonious” and re-considered tragedy.

          “What are thoughts in this space?”

 

 

 

The story made his body flip repeatedly until exhausted.

          “My, my. My goodness.”

 

 

 

The automobile motor sustained observing the gesticulating couple.

          “White metal.”

 

 

 

The driver was written to think “Americans” and gunned furiously.

          “Metal.    Breathing.”

 

 

 

How would you describe metal mixed with unrelenting sun and salt air?

            “Cloud shifts, waters.”

 

 

 

Oh is this where you let whiteness do its work?    

            “                      ”

 

 

 

You pulled like a postcard skidding across the water but the postcard was an actual wave.

          “Wave blinks.  Claps.”

 

 

 

I’m in this and the deep dive won’t pull rare pearls.

            “A mouth oh’s, opals.”

 

 

 

A reader breathes ice.  The throat can hold a coldness barely before the page is turned.

          “Hiss.   Hiss.”

 

 

 

If we’re being honest with each other, the story is quite unlike beads of sand.  

bead                bead                bead                bead                bead
bead                bead                bead                bead                bead
bead                bead                bead                bead                bead
bead                bead                bead                bead                bead
bead                bead                bead                bead                bead
bead                bead                bead                bead                bead

 

 

 

I will slip away now. . .

           “Drops on the glass”

 

 

 

Nighttime etched in quickly as the idea was when darkened all else calms.

          “Streams.”

 

 

 

Let’s sit in this dark cool place cold but cool.

          “Pink shell, tipping.”

 

 

 

To stay in this dark cool place was not a sustaining option.

          “Spray crab, spray.”