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You gaze down Infinity Pier
with its promises of sunny days,
the music of wind and water
hidden under every half shell.

The few days of rain
are housed perfectly, outside,
white fences picketing beauty
from flowers stampeding to the brick.

Those planks of freedom look smooth,
polished, regular,
yet the way is treacherous.
The vision melts
from the best of dreamers,
grounded to the past
as a rusted south-lain pipe-
dreaming a great sluggish black.

Should you discover those waters
adrift in dead things,
you’ll lace your feet with oil
and bleed from razor rocks, deserted,
for even the Sandman
can’t run at a deficit