The fishermen lug in their nets, the take’s
Too small, the natural’s shunted aside
For derricks busy recouping the wastes
Of the limitless profits of coal and oil.
Barely able to reach the dunes
(The other half of the parenthesis
In reverse), the waves have had years of going
On like this. As blue as gas,
The sea lights up, goes out. The breakers
Pursue a few mad screaming gulls,
Mean little beasts hooked on garbage.
And further along, there’s the hotel’s
Honeycomb windows looking out to sea,
A tray of ice cubes, each with its sniper.
Yet the summer clients stay faithful:
For instance, in Room 608,
Ms. Minerva, a former goddess, is keen
On not getting up. “One day,” she threatens,
“Is so like another that one will come
When I won’t even try at all.