Garlic

And beach huts

And setting sun

And a breeze to wake up up to your destiny

And pick you up and drop you

upon the uncomfortable shingle stones

of choice and opportunity

And the only nakedness

are the gulls

And an insane ornithologist

freezing his fishing tackle

in a wind chill of five degrees

And it dangled white like snow

And then blue like a corpse

for he was naked of course

And the ice cream seller – looking forlorn

And the Scud kite detaches from its child

And the child attaches to its step-mother

for fear of being blown to France

to be eaten by monsieur Oooh Lala!

like the man in the deli

with the garlic breath

And green bits

between his teeth

And the bald obsessive

with the metal detector

seeking fortune in the oily seaweed

And finding only a smart card

And the apocalyptic clouds

And the Morris Minor 66

And the balloon with the “help me” message

intended for love but

heading for antarctica

And you

And me

And you

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