Entrances North

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.