White Café
Insect wings skitter upright on the water.
Windsurfers catch knots,
slide past swimmers bobbing.
Rotate the scene. Include the white café,
its patio’s parasols.
Gulls trash-haggle, everything
the same as everything
and still the thing goes round,
a world rubbed down to nothing,
in the distance the sound a human makes.
Figures too small to be real, leap
wailing at lapping water, if it is water.
The white café spins Cinzano parasols.
Permit me to escort you to the edge of this.
A sand grain has commandeered the sun.
Rudders cut faces into keener shapes.
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