Pacific Coast

In Mexico on July 14, 2009 at 4:10 am


To pitch a tent

on pacific gravel,

five paces from a precipice—

to hear a distant radio

belch garbled mariachi song—

to feel the breeze

massage my greasy mop

the way the school nurse

once searched for lice—

to lie atop a sleeping bag,

too sweat-soaked

to papoose myself,

and breathe the salt and nettles

long into the night’s first dreams—

is much the same, I think,

as dying in your sleep.

The morning heat is garlanded

with Spanish gold,

the cliffs are a stale baguette

chewed off.

The waves pilgrimage

to our gravel beach,

bearing gifts of sunlight

on their arching backs.

A wreath of rocks

puffs smoke

beside a yellow trailer,

and a ratty dog

licks the air

with his ears.


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