A friend woke up on a beach chair
at their beach house to the stench of a
pile of catfish and a turtle baking in the hot sun.
He couldn’t remember how they got there. I come over
and drink until the sun goes down, and when I ask him
if we’re gonna go
he yells and we both race
across the dark street, slide down imposing dunes,
and laugh into the harmless waves. I don’t care about
anything else, because this is my place, and in the morning
we’ll be stinking and baking in the hot sun
and no one will remember how we got there…
500 years. Come back, Menendez. Take back la Florida,
back from the empire, back from the arrogant
Blood in the sand and you’ll cut off my head, too.
Blood in the sand. How does that look?
It goes out like there is no end, and as it goes so does your life.
But into the sand it goes like definite
quantities, curling up at the ends and turning
into rocks. It’s a wonder we haven’t built a fortress of