Places Series 1: Florida
THE POET: Well close your eyes; your eyes aren't even closed.
Imagine green: the shape of several hands
raised to the moon—electric, yet reposed.
Imagine soil, its clumping blacks and bands
of coppered loam. Moth-wet moss and marsh-
animal heft—its breath upon you still.
Imagine dawn gone yellow in the wash.
Cactus grass, fire ants, humid windowsills.
Those phantom centipedes with polished sheaths
shifting through rooms of fallen burgundy,
their armor dampened by battle—or was it me
who breathed so lightly at your back? To see
the hairs go limp, to see the weight of it
beading like air on glass, on wood, on paint.