Framing tides handicraft,
shimmering on earth’s etch-a-sketch.
Call it sculpture or drawing depending on where you are.
Kneeling beside, tombstone vines twist into braids; standing above,
wispy lines carve shadows of relief.
Short lived all, soon ghosts
erased by displacement.
Here I am
No over here
There I was
I can see my fingernails growing here.
It must be the salty mist or
Provincetown pink.
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