Why is the sea cool
at the surface
warm below
as if it's
upside down?

A stream
comes from the mountain,
crosses fields
where farmers
look after it,
is allowed
beneath the road,
hurries though groves
of oak and juniper
in which chameleons
spills between shadows
onto the bay's
dazzling gold
blue mask
and floats.

This trickle
chills your skin,
come out,
sit by the stump,
see girls parade
along the beach
from the campsite
to the town
while waiting
for night,
their backs will bend
like they've got no bone.

We'll lie here,
the sun has warmed
our patch,
sand cushions your hips,
let your book's spine break.