Down here, in Islamorada,
January feels like August.
Pelicans preen on the docks
and every palm tree looks thirsty.
For the blue-eyed captain from Ohio
decorating his retired nets
with local conch shells,
it is thirty years ago,
it is a wedding in Los Angeles.
His Mercury motor
has begun cursing the water,
spitting at the water, the water
as murky as soup.
And the stars sink into doldrums
while the lobsters fall asleep,
and the seagulls diving for pinfish
go white with the myth
of want and need.
The sequel to night
solders the scenery,
the ultimate vision of the island
to be had from a freighter
rippling across the Gulf Stream
in the rose-colored dawn.
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Issue 54
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Editor's Note
-
Poetry
-
Fiction
-
Book Review
- David Rigsbee reviews Blue Rust
by Joseph Millar
- David Rigsbee reviews Blue Rust