By RAHN ADAMS
It’s one of those paintings / of someone not in it / — the art of imagining / what’s not from what’s there.
Is it the longboards leaning / against the deck railing, / leaving us to imagine / the surfer boys of summer elsewhere?
Or is it the sand fence / standing at the edge of the strand, / its slats splayed / and bleached in the wet, salty air?
Maybe it’s the pier house itself, / its windows looking down / on what’s going on in the dunes / away from our stares.
Or maybe it’s the clouds / rolling in from the west / to ruin our carefree day, / as if the weather were ever truly fair.