beaches (1)

Rebecca Perry

you frown in your beautiful portrait,
seeming dead way ahead of time,
in your weak blue oval of enamel sky.
what’s wrong, my little peach?
tonight a wolf’s eyes will glow violet
in a forest you’ll never see
in a place you can’t know. is that it?
and, somewhere, is a whole beach
made of glass pebbles you will never
lie down on, nor will your skin reflect
its blue, green, white, and burn.