by Julie Cameron Gray
Tourists,
the seashore is nothing
more than
a dirty mile
of horizon
and the smell of fish
tacos clinging
to our clothes.
Who will
be the last alive
to share this
view?
The ten
carat gold sky,
its
mustard gas dream.
Let’s find
a handsome cab
and tell
the driver to drive
around
until the meter
hits sixty
and the horses tire,
the sun
forever rising
on the
British empire,
dragging its
gamey leg
around town.
around town.
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