before our coral architecture grays. We can pray
for our skeletons to bathe in clean tropical blood

transform denial into blue-green moss
fragrant as a florist, smart as a forest exhale.

The man with the gold-plated pen in his hand
is a behind-the-scenes laughing back row crow

poking the sand bag barriers surrounding islands
standing near the coffin thinking it will confess.

Science is not a battleground for business men
nor a sanctuary for a simmering stew of beliefs.

Watch, as the tired street pumps in Miami
send drums of marine water back out to sea.