Proxy (2003)

For 23 years I’ve lived
in Florida, yet only
perhaps a month of it
I’ve been out on its
true beaches, walking
astride the salt chorals
of the sea, dozing in
those siestas of satiate
bliss. Hardly gotten my
toes wet in all this time:
And yet that surf
surrounds me in dream
and on page with slow
sure rhythmus which
refuses to age. Beach
music I hear in every cup
I draw these days from
this cold northern well
-- bittersweet piano notes
which rinse the rage
from me, leaving behind
bossa motions caressing
the buoy of my ear.
Right now it’s dark
in the marinas where
yachts and sailboats
rest, their white shapes
like faint shells resting
on the bay’s black sand.
Green and red lights
constellate the waters
with a faery glow,
faint voices whose
merriment is lost
upon those bronzed
millionaires who’ll
roll up after dawn
with their tackle,
rum and tarts. Beyond
the harbor lights the
sea is wholly dark,
erased, though its
mute motions rock the
whole tableau on
a uteral gyre. It’s hours
yet before the arousals
of first light: Years or
lifetimes before I’ll
wake again from
the front seat of
my car on New
Smyrna Beach as
I once did regularly
on Sunday mornings
long after all the
bars had closed,
the breeze all salt
and brine breathing
hard into the windows;
I may never again sit
again on a chaise
on some condo balcony
alone as that symphony
resume. Ah but I
am listening, blue
mother, to the
suck and draw you
ride from beneath
my history’s horizon,
in that place where
I’ve always lived,
at least in here,
tolling these bells
to you from the heart
you shipwrecked on
the beach far down,
inside, where you
kissed me, sashayed
off, and let the
heavens drown.