The surf club car park is littered with empty.
Muscle-testing image in the drum roll
tableau of sheets stripped of servitude. ‘Isn’t
there just a tiny bit of gravity in outer space?’
The indifferent surf gambles on the negative
gearing of light over sound. Pale ontologies in
multiple horizons reverse fossilized sprays of
ancestral Fred Williams. The sea swallows.
Wet-suited seals snuffle at ruffle-edged skirts.
Your G-string of land, newly frayed and fickle.
‘Why don’t the four of us buy that unit over-
looking the ocean?’ Your son splinters in the
complex pool. Bone-crack heckling kindergarten
survivalists. You are the view of the surf club car
park. Sky by Yves St Laurent. God love the French
and their sexy accents. Love is assault, you think
he said, or maybe – love is a sought.