Having spent the better part of the last week in St. Pete Beach, Florida, I’ve managed to get a solid draft of a new poem together.



unsteady – not quite anxious – from the limp

of this deck furniture’s scuff-addled vantage, this

small prefab balcony’s whitewashed aluminum strobe-

frames a giant inflatable beach slide’s flaccid blue

end-of-day posturing – captures everything

here, uneasy; collapsing; folding in, on

itself.               and there is near nothing as far as a wave

action goes; the water sleepily-dimpled, the gulf

a sun-soaked newsprint facsimile of overworked levi’s.               afternoon’s

now a breezy, disinterested sigh; nameless near

palms struggle to grab the air’s pay.               checked, the view

is a strip-mall waffle house, segmented

and greasy; you can’t un-stick your eyes’ thick lids

for all the air’s syrup.               the beer’s not quite warm.

this, it would seem, is america.             

you sit here.               you lounge in a favourite shirt worn and washed

once too often – the seams ready to give,

but no one’s willing to wager, just now, on quite how.


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