Mirage

Up on the bath house wall hands of the giant clock close in on time, try to contain it.

The glass dome sealed to a hot stone wall contemplates the day, green noonshade of

palms on dune grass, red umbrellas and bathers in the shimmering distance.

But the hour trickles past dripping showerheads down half-wet stone escapes across the sand

past umbrellas, past the graceful bending forms, slides into ocean's careless frill in glittering slanted lines.

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