Dora Incites the Sea-Scribbler to Lament

Sees him at the far end of the strand,

squamous in rubbery weed, his knees bobbing

urchins, his lean trunk leaning, sea-treasure for her.

After it all (they mate, like carapaces, in parentheses)

Dora feels coolness in new places, lifts a reused

razor shell, mother-of-pearly and straight

and signals out to the swell of moldering green.

Dora, Dora, Dora, in which dread is.

People people the beach, peering

through splayed hands, appealing:

DAW-RAAaargh. A boat sees her passing.

Sea-scribbler’s chest buckles

in aftershock:

his quill is primed: squid-inked and witful.