I picture Florida

Sprinting sticky clocks

caught in

strawberry blonde hair

tangling you into

the side of her

sweaty back roads.

A map of your voice

stumble, crack,

lilt, rise and sing

around her curves.

I picture Florida

flying on the water

salt licking lips.

Rebel you, drunk on

the ocean

and hue of

summertime skin.

Too cool to know better and

too brash to keep quiet.

We would not

have been friends.

Staring the sun in its

pupil until

you could see


Mist and melancholy

rubbing up against your cheeks.

Hurricane daughter,

heels full of alligator dreams.

I picture Florida

and I am ten.

You are telling me to

drop the coconuts

onto the sidewalk

and not the asphalt

it seems they break easier

that way.


One thought on “Florida

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