A dirty, sewage-punctuated road to the left running straight to a beach called little closeout.
A term devised to keep other surfers away.
A lie to keep a gem hidden.
Then the dirt road and the fishermen and the tourists and the coolers and the lycra shirts and carts of vendors selling blankets, bracelets, coconut water and fruits.
A resort on a headland toppled by a previously pounding shore.
Ghosts of travelers now trapped in the barb-wired lobby.
Angel woodwork on closed doors at the entrance.
An aspiration gone sour.
A dream with a futile ending.
Yet yellow and red domes grace the cliff as if the project succeeded for Instagrammers only.
A large prop on a movie set.
Empty palace save for one very enthusiastic kitten patrolling the courtyard.
And the dirt road points to a real wave surfed by two of the many cosmic travelers.
The smell of mesquite and garbage fires drifting together and separating from one nostril to the next.
Kings of Mexico wrapped in strings of party lights.
