By the Poet Peter Layton

Us, Our Art Nouveau Day At A Beach

I'm down by the wet sucking to the shoreline.
The horizon fills like a vacant gas to the sky.

You and your beauty are not here.

I'll say all the words to myself now holding
the apparent future like a negative thing.

The familiar noodling sound of the eels the
thin sand fin sharks, everything like the tosses
of the light air birds
shrilling at each other, I'll set out
the blanket and its topsy turvy salts
watching, making up things about clouds.
Each one being each one.

{Poem by Peter Layton}