That hound
       jumps waves,
              yaps, scrapes sand,
       spins, runs, yelps.
Old trailers, colours
       hit by sun, turn
       old and careless.
A sticky breeze
       glues my hair,
       pulls pages from a book,
flutters kites up to sky roof,
hangs / crinkled / each
chapter numbered
       as if sequence
              was right.
These rocks
       chopped by sea,
       flat, slippery,
       still wet from the tide,
              odd sticks and plastic,
              puddles and pools,
       little fish zip zap, disappear,
       bubbling ferns underwater.
Pull away to horizon,
       ill-defined arc
              where tankers crawl,
       gulls patrol the airways,
              eye everything,
                     swoop and squawk.
This pebble is round
       and cold,
it falls
       before it reaches the waves.

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