not to move quiet things

the stone stairs go 

into the gray pacific

the kids on cardboard slide

down the tilted tia juana apartments roof

onto the beach

a building half-eaten by the sea

still rents rooms

some with toilets on the balconies

looking over the coming horizon

people smile and step over cracks

gather coconuts chewing cane stalks

laughter at the edge of the world

the salted air is hushed 

by sleeping dogs

near a smooth foundation of a vanished house 

a chair with three legs 

sits on the cliff edge 

as though nothing was missing