Paa Mul

We walk an empty stretch of beach

kept secret by the locals, not residents

nor tourists either, suspended for a summer

between addresses, without a set of walls

to keep us in. No trinkets

here, no coconut drinks,

only a half-bottle of wine

warm as the sea whose faded green

is like the turquoise no longer found

in our old country’s veins.

On the far side of the cove, an abandoned shelter

lets go its roof one palm leaf at a time.

The hermit crabs are big as apples, and not afraid.

What we long for has no name

and we walk without destination, drinking deeply,

happy without knowing why. The breeze dies

and swells again in gusts like breath,

a conversation with the tide.


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