As usual, the guard who worked
the night shift at the boardwalk
returned home tired to his bed.
The sky began to whiten:
a window opened, and pigeons
were playing in the waterfounts.
There were fishermen smoking
on the docks, and someone
was already swimming when
the sun finally rose, and a few
passersby paused to watch that
gradual expansion of light along
the shoreline—it was more
as if someone had tilted the sea
toward the sun. The bakery
shutters were thrown open early
on the promenade, and at first
signs of heat the elderly
gathered, sipping their ices,
in the water-colored shade
of the palmleaves. And then
the bathers, with their bright
suits and baskets, began
to come out from the striped
tents and take their places
in the sand. And close
their eyes against the sun.
And softly, as though not
to disturb the afternoon, softly,
a radio love-song drifted out
through the air … so that
the guard turned over, once,
in sleep, and the pigeons
made blue rings in the sky.
–What else was there then, but
the music, and the warm sand?
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