Erupts in shocks of wheat
That peel away and fall back down.
Around and around it goes,
Dissipated mists replaced
By brackish storm drain runoff
Cycled by invisible mechanical pumps.
Yeah I know it’s fake,
That the water isn’t potable.
But it’s still water,
Dutifully following inscrutable orders.
I still see the morning orange glowering
Behind its arching apical spray.
And close up, down on the benches
Along the kitschy walkway,
The roar of the splashdown crash
Is arguably just as real,
When you close your eyes,
As the dawn Pacific surf.