Florida

I was sitting on the shore

Swamp-assed in the summer sand

Beads of salt water rolled down me

And I couldn’t tell my sweat from the

Wet land

Twenty-two miles to the ocean horizon

500 feet to the car on the asphalt

Get Jesus and my water shoes because by God

I’m going walking

Let them cry and blow their whistles

I don’t care if this whole town forgives me

I’m a local with no loyalty and the devil’s son above

Is damn near killing me so

Cover the kids’ ears when you talk about it

Whiteout the headlines all summer

To keep that seasonal joyous cash crop growing

Till the birds fly home for the winter and the Lincolns stop flowing

This beach is a dog in heat and she’s god damn bleeding.

If I ever make it back to your bio-hazards and incubators,

I hope the birds have had their way with me,

And that the waves carry me to the child from Tennessee

And my eye sockets sprout for her an anemone,

And if I never make it back,

I want you to know I hate you

And the horizon is twenty-two miles out, and it’s got something else to offer.

 

 

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