Montaulk

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.