Those tender thickets of floral poetry,
Printed on pulp pages,
Which have something to do with your crashing feet,
Something to do with the roaring beat,
Are made of pebbles dressed in aquatic fauna,
Echoing footsteps over dingy and hollow covers.
Again, neap tide moon, neap tide beach day. Bad day at Black Rock.
Into the hotel, Bosnian luxury.
Furnished room of surprises.
Shoulders and arms, sunrises.
Onto the road, the hourly road trip.
A minute volume happily.