Florida

I’ve come into summer under the Tabebuia Trees.
I’ve driven two nights to reach them.
The I-4 reports choppers, the jagged palms
of shark in the Gulf’s blue carapace.
The Stream interprets cuts with its surfaces.
It crosses new coastlines and each new border
is depth. I know something about being lost.
I imagine they’re searching for refugees.
For now, I’m a hole in an open-windowed bar,
in air that lifts salt-water to my lips,
and leaves of the Tabebuia Trees,
as the cougar walks out into the intersection,
just as she promised me she would.

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