A community garden arises
of old shuffleboard courts.
The dandelion fountain
will bloom again.
I will write one more
about a single painting that celebrates
the island in moody watercolors
with abstract undertones.
If I write a poem about an art fair,
would it be ekphrasis, or a failed figment?
Those cursive m’s I could never draw
quite right shadow dancing
in a darkened corridor. This printed word
will crush the teeth
of those ghosts wading in the surf—
or would if they had mouths to hold them.