bleached by the sun, salt and sand.
Long beach dunes, not a single footprint
Gigante begins where the fishermen land.
American surfers roam through the inns.
parking their boards outside the shops
Drunken Marine slurs Tona with sly grin
to the plump brown matron un-bottling hops.
Hungry black dogs saddle up to your knees
Locals eye newcomers with a quiet suspicion
who suddenly appear like forest breeze
a bloodless and dark apparition.
Maybe you turned a ghost in translation
No dune footprints marked, no human relations.
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