While we are seaside, quiet outside looking in
we can save ourselves before our bones bleach
we can save ourselves before our bones bleach
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.
