First the sunbathing Europeans and now the seagulls
seem gray-skeptical. Showed little interest in being
sketched, remained still for scattered moments
against a carcass of Key West breezes. At times,
the memories of headlights, faces recast
before engines moving, chugging chains of metal, these
revelations of line and nose, of eyelash. At times
the morning and the evening trade lives, like one lover
for another, or a job you leave and forget
to say goodbye. They collect on debts from the horizon
and wear each other’s clothes, as water and air can both
be blue, be green, be effortless, and harsh, can picture
themselves somewhere very far away, and then
see it in reflection after reflection, a glance and pose,
held still, to diminishing returns. Or thrown there
down long Duval Street as green lights replace the red,
I’ve fallen against resplendent palms—trees—and taken
time to consider outstretched hands as knuckle
and extension, as conclusions drawn in black and white.
But even sky can contrast here. A couple experiments
with temperature and ocean, depth, and far-reaching
shallows before motel rooms and showers, a double-spray
of cool cologne, and early evening expectations
launch them into night.