The pylons hum

and junipers squirm,

disempowered breakers

caress wet sand.

Under this

cabinet heat

the street dogs

rove, their eyes

straining for scraps

in lemon warmth

of boulevard doorways.

Tepid tea is drank

in dank cafés,

pledges are made

and smashed behind

in shadow-cast labyrinths.

People die quietly

in scorched

blood scrubbed,

with cumin sprinkled upon

mackerel and moored boats

painted amber,

jutting in the

slanted sunlight harbour.

Underneath it

all the beautiful

things

are disappearing.