[Scene VI. Beach.]

[Speaking]

My father cuts grass on a diagonal.

His lawn is prairie.

He is east.

Once in a while a black cut waits on his chin.

For what? His hands are bigger,

his cigarette is made of poppies.

He is an oar.

He is a sprocket.

Light blue shirt. He barbecues oysters,

a Bélon in there.

Radio feeds through the door of a garage.

Moderate forecast.

Momentarily my father

turns his face from the win

Shoulders raised,

hat tilted.

He is windscreen and leaves of tobacco.

Elegant white flowers,

spires of something fragrant and unknowable.

He rakes hot shells off the grill

with his bare fingers.

                                        [Fragile, fragile]

No injuries, no sign of a burn.