Nothing remains now
but skeleton skyscrapers
decaying on imagined
beachfront property.
Salt air dictates their end
and tidal centuries
will take back
what took only
seconds to conceive.
Ignorant seabirds
swarm the sea-foam
as the sun
in unending act
of rising or setting
glistens their wingtips.
And I?
A stray beachcomber
bald as pigeon’s egg
wrapped in red bandana,
strung out on creation
and endless possibility,
toil in the surf,
step by scalloped step
forever after and away,
my back to Xanadu.
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