Pitched tent
narrow road
the sea just hangs off its sleeve
like any good freeloader would
the sky darkens
a machine-made shadow
and a cruise ship bands the sky
hovering over houses
like a cross between an elephant and a private eye
the sweet little Italian man
dressed casually to the nines
can only step a quarter of a foot at a time
but he walks
he never hails a taxi
I've seen him shuffling all about town
every day he makes it home for dinner

the man in a smooth navy ¾-length walking coat and black shades
stands at the ledge of the boardwalk, reflective horizon line glisten listen
off a single sheet of classical prose he recites a forgotten vernacular to the wind
his hands jarring the air with loose lines splashing against the sea
the sun icing over his silver hair while greasing his sienna skin
he turns back around to his friend, who is sitting on a wooden bench

The man perched on his Venetian windowsill
holds his landscape with his upper body with immensity
later in the evening he is passed by in a wheelchair
with immensity

​

Sans seaside mermaid delay
farce energy display
aquatic metallic pink fitted gathering
sunrise, drop, surprise
red lips
moonlight
joker sadness
stacker assemblage
if you look down the red and blue strobe spotlight
looks burgundy and brown
feet move
ladder lays lateral
bright light, dark path
face block headlamp
desert visage
sandy blonde salty sea hair
true beauty washed up on the shores
eyes the colour of fader kelp
smoked taupe wool knit sweater with a button
bags out at the sleeve
casual khaki slacks hang loose
sun-bleached chestnut skin with age will turn into historical saddle brown
leather memories through creases
collective narratives through a genuine approach
how to consider the sun while holding tight under the moon
his embrace
his hands

Soundtrack: Post magic, more magic