A half paper cup of tea
on white sand
lapped into the mouth of Mexico,
the beach of millionaire dreams
and shattered Modelo bottles.
Seagulls circling the shallow fish
with small hungry beaks.
Under this palm tree I sit for hours,
where the time is not long
but not short either.
It can never go away now.
Once the wind has passed through you,
the salt is forever on your lips,
the shade carried on your skin,
one endless string of sleep
thickening and thinning all the days
of your life.
They say the people here
have such a sun-and-clouds sensibility,
always waiting for paradise
even when they’re ear-deep in the music
only experienced dreamers
can understand.
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1 comment:
Beautiful. Existential dreaming. I feel like I'm sitting under that palm with you and then I look at my faded yellow/beige walls and remember that I'm just dreaming.
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