A city by the beach

I live in a city by the beach.

I walk its shores amongst wrappers,

bottle tops, razors, tampons and nets,

all washed up by the tide.

In the evening when I run,

I pass sea lions, dead and putrid,

gulls, herons and pilpilens,

bones revealed, heads twisted, wings broken.

In my meditations I plead

with fishermen and porteños:

our senses have run wild; don’t you

know desire is our only cancer?

We have unleashed the horses

and burned the reins with relish.

Our home boasts of brothels, our

pimps reigning in pompous power.

Your oily, iron-gray sands,

Mother, I’m sorry for my tread.

All sorry cities by the beach;

and we the makers of this dread.