Thursday, June 03, 2004
Merritt Island is on fire,
smoke rising into the eastern sky
where a herd of grey-purple manatee-clouds swim above the Atlantic,
where the cruise ship we’ve missed is slipping out of port.
And the sky is aflame to the west
where sunset has joined the Orlando reactor fires,
where fallout dusts the Bee Line’s toll-poor tourists.
even as we drive across the bridge
over the Indian River
and the sun winks its last flash from the treed horizon.
A spectre of Hope rises toward moonlight—
phoenix in our wake.
No, this isn’t the poem I alluded to earlier. This was written last November, while we were in Cocoa Beach for the Glory-Hole wedding. It’s been fermenting in a state of semi-finality, so I decided to call it “done.” And then post it.