late morning stroll to the boulangerie

baguette and coffee and
the badly written crime novel
about la France profonde
where the bestial slaughter
of a beur hardly disturbs the idyll

gelatinous time

just now and then the whistle of trains
behind the bougainvilleas on fire

on the beach the babel of Europe on holiday

silhouette of a windmill
above gnarled vines
red soil of foothills
walls washed in Southern pastels

clink of ice cubes
impossibly green diabolo menthe

watch the summer melt

in the dark the fan spins
in the windowless bedroom

telling lies of a wide open sea

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