The Beach at Sainte-Adresse

Something in the landscape keeps him alive.
Boats and sea subside: sightseers, fishermen.
The tactile sand, hallucination, fever
And that Monet; a chill has compromised it.
The wall behind it undulates. Inscrutable
Clouds pretend to move; arrested headwind
Brushes Sainte-Adresse, dark hull and steeple.
He shivers, sweats, the mainsheet over him;
Residue of salt turns sketch to brushstroke,
Plaintive skyline, umbilicus, fragile cloud,
Monet’s Normandy, fingertips touching land.

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