Everglades (working title)

This land is amorphous.

a cruel paradox

of old shadow.

- the brave

effort of geography

to remember things

ancient lost.

always a memory.

never, it feels,

alive independent.

Now coffin nail trees

groan

like some belly of a whale,

cast

in obsidian breath,

dark still,

until its burning hour.

some vengeful lights

traveled. turned

over ,

, over.

There are dreams, here.

violent and weird.

bleeding

inconstant

as the land

and sort-of-land

and not-quite-land, here -

- ready always to accept

that easy suggestive stroke

of quick hurricane shift,

upside down

and thunder eyed.