Florida <br /> <br />An Airedale rolling through green frost, <br />cabbage palms pointing their accusing leaves <br />at whom, petulant waves breaking at my feet. <br />I ran from them. Nights, yellow lights <br />scoured sand. What was ever found <br />but women in skirts folded around the men <br />they loved that Friday? No one found me. <br />And how could that have been, here, where <br />even botanical names were recorded <br />and small roads mapped in red? <br />Night, the sky is black paper pecked with pinholes. <br />Tortoises push eggs into warm sand. <br />Was it too late to have come here? <br />Everything's discovered. Everything's spoken for. <br />The air smells of salt. My lover's body. <br />Perhaps it is too late. I want to run <br />the beach's length, because it never ends. <br />The barren beach. Airedales grow <br />fins on their hard heads, drowned surfers <br />resurface, and those little girls <br />who would not be called back to safety are found.<br /><br />Deborah Ager<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-space-coast/
