When in Mexico,
you go slow.
What began as a run on the beach
ends as a stroll, as I squint into the sun
to admire the motion of a fisherman
throwing his nets
again and again
into the sea.
A view of the ocean. A car containing sand and soggy wetsuits. A house full of books, boys, laundry and love. A poem, a picture, a rumination.
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