By | 1 August 2015

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.

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