Pale paints poured
into a driftwood frame.
In this watercolored world,
a bay cottage decays.
Gunmetal shore breaks
against brush-stroked grain,
and the horizon’s stained a timeless,
milky light-flecked beige.
The artist left this rendering
void of all humanity.
I imagine a person must be
cozied up inside by
a crimson cottage fire,
just waiting for my eyes
to flit from this hung canvas.
When unperceived,
they’ll walk the beach
to pluck sea glass on that
cobalt line between
the Atlantic and outlandish.
pm poetry 