St. Tropez.
Apollo stepping-out
from the radiator-grille
of a Maserati sports saloon
wiped away the flies
in the dizzle-dazzle of that afternoon
perceived the dullness of the gold
and less than white reflections
in the boutique window
he paused
regrets
maybe a few
and distant thunder
edging forward
in the ice-cream queue
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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