The Windmill Pub

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.