An open haired mother,
open haired boy,
closed to a sea-blue floor
washed in the tide light.
A moon cretin shape,
sweet dribbled nape,
a sample of red goldmines
(and evening sight).
Day bespeaks aroma,
encrypted sale imagery
pearls cottoning surf
past a gravelbed of earth.
I throw up
astride the fast cars,
aside a widening battle line.