Corte Madera

Summer has fried California,
and the permanent tourists beachside
realize their faults caught up with them years ago.
Old men consider old habits
through dark glasses rimmed with lime.
A two hundred dollar skirt looks twice as rich
on a fifteen-year-old Brazilian girl.

On rented porticoes overlooking stones
and drying grass they sun themselves, smoking.
These delicacies stream the shoreline more
than recurring ocean currents; the smell
of kiwi and coconut oil the shortening shadows.

Bay flags twitch on the wind,
each piece of the puzzle dim behind the screen
has long since been fitted perfectly.

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