A Trip to the Beach

Well, it's not an umbrella.

Breathing glazed in a sun
of sorts, melancholy grass and I share

teutonic winds, in our perverse pleasure
of existence--while the sky blazes down, burning
the sand into new paths to everywhere.
Refound dreams, fractal possibility, beauty,

whatever the plucking crane sees in it--this raised
road is whirling.  My caricatured futures grow blindly,
corridored in desolate laughter--somehow,
every dream is a reality again.  I need the shore. 
The
        dream
                    flees
When you, quick-wit, glacier-
tongue, mirage-snatcher, arrive.  A brick grows in front of

the sun.  In your perfect world, concrete's the only
reality, a one-way path to molded success.  My foetid
imagination wanders--burnt, the paths are closing--were
they ever open?--and everything

is sickly out of reach.  I should have said no.  All hope's
now lost, but I knew it never was a green existence.
Am I too young to see the truth in your stone?--There
is a short hike to nowhere here. At least you have

your realities to sing to.  Glazed in a stupor
of sorts, everything is reversed.  Tell me again.