You're not the only one who does weird
stuff down in Florida where the fear of a new
economy makes you stockpile atomic testing
helmets and question studious men who
measure the intensity of connections from
beyond the grave. I stand next to a Key West
crypt whose inscription reads: I told you I was sick.
In the lemony heat, love brings love to whomever
refuses to fall to her knees. In one scenario, we
go down with the plane. In another, we are saved
by a godlike cloud. You are tender. I have
a skeleton. We don’t think any president can
save us. Living in this country is like finding
the weapon that solves the crime. No one claps,
but the wait is over. Blaze on, Florida, blaze on.