what pulls the tall thin girl's white towel
closer to her teak tent-pole legs, three
delicately bent, lean firecrackers and
a curious quarter-stick of dynamite
fixed toward the ocean, so many
seem over-prepared, hesitant like
gulls idling on an island of wet rock
white wind a steady beating, just starved
kept from instinct's kiss, though the peddlers
the combers, the oogler's eyes, the uninitiated
family men, the habitual nappers, each shovels
a new hole where no new holes could imagine
their digging;
three lean firecrackers and
a quarter-stick of dynamite.
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