Palm trees and the beige buildings. You can’t see those. You can’t see the mini orange tube dress. Legs extending long. The damp sand stuck to her feet. You can’t see the shapes of men’s bodies inside her imagination. Pelicans floating, resting on the water’s surface.
Rocks scattered and seaweed adrift.
Intense warm penetrating skin, deposits into muscles like an unexpected opiate. You can’t see the melting tension or the man in mind off-site, his absence. You can’t see a wish. Traces of graphite and charcoal in mind reach figures like touching, instead the outlines of bodies stretching.
You can’t see the far leaning palm trees to the left in the wind so precariously tall at this distance, green beams to a point aloft perched on long thin stems, the turn of her head toward beige long extending ranch-style apartments and muted businesses laid into sideways horizons, or the true colors or true expanse of the whole scene and most of all you can’t see her.
Men between two sights, one slow breath between them. Ankles against the water’s pulse. Language speaking inside sees past to dimensions off-shore, watching.
Contrast between younger and older.
Later, pelican’s wings will shift into kitesurfers. Then hers will be the only eyes closed. Wind pulling soft at the tide, then violent. Legs crossed in the cooling sand, whipping round the long braid and wet dress, face tilts up toward sun burning warm water off our bodies, chest open.
You can’t see her.