Island windfall, a glimmer, a glimpse. An eyesight occurring at the ears, listening to pineapples.
Sunburned by a murmur of brilliant sand. Wall to wall, little glitches of palms, hatching, barely flourished, a stillness lumbering in the chills.
Seaquick, a gulped barrenness under the wind. Blueness, flatly. Then suddenly wavelike.
Elsewhere, by all means, elsewhere, in the mist, with a telescope, I could see it from there, a surge of giant palms, up there, and down here, under my gaze, ears cupped against the sucking waves, a burst of speechlessness, with no more traversable space, just a deadness of the dead, dead like the living, and of the no more, it can only be me, in my reverse farness, at the site of this, in the ears: Beachview Avenue
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