This much is certain: here,
waves on rock give birth to sugar –
a decided consummation of confusion
turned, instantly,
elemental.
Nothing out of the ordinary,
just horizon crashing restlessly into Malecon,
resolving to airborne crystal,
settling to the earth
as pure palatability.
You are all salt
stretched wide in liquid simplicity,
thirsty by nature,
but at home in your own company.
Every part unattended
still tastes of sea,
not yet turned sweet with encounter.
There is Malecon beneath,
rubbed smooth by seven days of the same pacing,
craning still at the precipice.
There is Malecon beside,
a path of wandering rock following the sea –
portless, estranged from history,
and made, in time,
an unremarkable pilgrimage for tenderhearted tourists
looking listlessly toward home.