He hates sand
resents their untold numbers,
exhausted boulders
grinding pornographically
inexorably reduced
passive substrate for seagull shit Pollack reproductions
scoured, unclean.

A walk each morning at dawn,
he loathes the sunrise
presumptuous rays stalk the horizon
obliterate the embrace of night-time anonymities

found a glass ball
green, spectacularly delicate
a fragile maritime impossibility
lying in the sand
It popped when he crushed it under foot.

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