The surf immune to love;
wind bursts below a helicopter, blades spilling
confession over the waves without memory.
Gone, the rotors bequeath belligerent silence.
Pelicans designing divinity in prehistoric sunshine.
The tide takes away disbelief as if it were sand,
leaves a wooden nail embedded in a piece of plank.

JW Burns lives in Florida. (Editors’ note: The author declined a video or photo.)

To read previous Editors’ Choices, please visit:

Tapestry – by John Copley Alter

Writer’s Block is a Bitch – by Stephanie L. Harper

Van Gogh Speaks from His Deathbed – by Ellen Austin-Li

quand tu me manques – by Sara Cosgrove

The Smell of Gas Reminds Her of Sylvia Plath – by Dr. Catalina Florina Florescu