All in Silhouette
Someone had made art on the beach at midnight.
A thin, tilting Stonehenge of driftwood spars.
High tide threatened to topple this anonymous masterpiece of evanescence.
We ran for it with the sun shining at high noon.
It was hard running with two bottles of wine.
We stopped at Stonehenge, marveled, wondered.
We shouted profane hosannas of happiness.
She unscrewed the burgundy,
drained half the prize.
I guzzled the pinot gris,
scoped for prudes and interlopers.
No one around.
She stripped in stages, sunglasses second,
hurling the pink bra last.
It flew like a wounded kite.
She danced around Stonehenge and pole danced
in the strip club of the ocean.
I saw it all in silhouette.