The sun was a focused beam
flecked with dust,
a dirty projector.
Irene sat in long sleeves
on the shore. She could just make out
blades of coral scratching
a glassed surface.
Curving and hunching, all in a row
like vertebrae.
When the tide was low,
the whole reef lurked above the water:
a scattered skeletal puzzle.
Irene thought of it
as a living shipwreck.
A ghost ship’s great shadow.
Paul stayed in the room
smoking Cubans and eating
black olives off his browned fingers.
Paul was good at talking people into things.
Irene was very in love.
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