A lot of tepid nothing goes on here,

during the day I walk to the secret beach

past the Dream Houses, manses of darkened

concrete that tower over the sandhills

and kit-set scrub, featuring coffin-shaped

architectural turrets, carports, copious

decking and their own three-hundred-and-sixty-five

degree sea-fog views. 
Skylarks. It goes this far, and that much further.

Here are the people who have drowned in debt

in exchange for a glass box dream. I see them

getting out of their Subaru Maximus

toting their sacks of supermarket fast food.

They rarely walk on the beach.
I will admit, I am having a little

trouble with my own crazy cough etiquette

but when the moon swims across the sky like

a pearly fish, it makes me hold out hope

that many more of everyone can still

become their own significant slow-opening lotus.