Skimming the rim of a Glass It’s strange how simple scents, in the height of reason, The tower of summer, uplift you, The odd interminglings enrich you. It was the backend of a smoked-out Friday, Awash with all sorts: the sand trails, hightailed bathers, vacationers, drudgery escapees, peacocks. They dotted the beaches like a punctured wall map, The stores that closed and opened, nosed and hoped, To aid the days of the dream parade. Lemons mixed with SPF, the vestige of which Tickled an enduring sense of “things are as they should be” An emerging sense—I could see. Jacob Dunstan…