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
whypoetry 
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