Salt-bashed skin
walk into The Windmill pub,
at the end of the sun-day,
skin after skin
of rosy white and
clotted pores.
The sun-flesh sacks
sit in seats
sipping drinks.
From wallets blushed,
prices paid;
prices of beachy convenience.
Cream on dotted walls
cage them
at teak tables,
beneath breathing bronzes
and coppered hunger,
guilded thirst.
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