It used to be beautiful but people got there
with ideas. I don’t know why a parking lot
should cover the green velvet moss that wrapped
the long slippery slate-stone path to the water
under thick green sun-spackled trees that was like walking
through golden pollen hovering inside the vest of a vast leprechaun
before opening out onto a beige pebbled beach
of bodies bobbing naked in the sunned shallows
or reclining like purposeful porpoises that Manet
or Seurat would gladly have painted, hips
and breasts, with their delicate French brushstrokes.
I decline the five dollar asking price
and drive on, back to Austin, talking to myself
feeling like Matthew McConaughey in a Mercedes commercial,
famous in my own mind, alone, and bewildered.