LITTLE MISS ON BIG SUR
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the elegant round of backlit morning dew,
thickening cloudy malaise,
masks ghost-whispering sandpipers at play.
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unheralded against the craggy moors,
weather beaten by sun and sea,
mounting Dianna’s chariot
tucking noon beams into ancient coves
mist and fate,
caught expressive, yet removed.
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a myth endured,
till weekend trips eclipse
the cymbal crash of restless surf.
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and liken this change-less paradise
to each small and supple bend of my lover’s back
trampled underfoot
bewildered as a pack of midday galloping rhinos
beach balls bobbing,
toward undisturbed, forgetful sands.
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