February 3, 2009

Siesta Key

Chilled loops spiral through dappled air.
Out there, beyond the shops, the trees,
the surf's ceaseless rush keeps ragged time.
In the pool dry posture thaws into atavistic coils.

The customary channels have dried up. We transfer want
routed through firewalls and Bern.
You called me by a moody name.
In the dunes memory declines to a sense of heat.

"They're in-house," he said, the parsley fries. Menu, magazine.
A muted blare keeps pace, assuming a ground state of desire.
In the cove the anhingas listen only
to the fatalistic raga of the leaves.