Salt In Our Storms

Your hair distantly-viewed rainclouds,
Ragged party streamers gray as somber
Party finery: a pin-stripe
Three-piece suit, top hat,
Static in a fall;
Hanging coal water in a wet dove sky.
Only the sky is a face and
You are outer space.
Is ether your blood or your empty skin?
Star corpses rankle;
Their ghosts comprise a lonesome light
Haunting an otherwise hazardous night.
You our Winter Florida.
Herons are weeping in their wedding gowns.
Skimming the ground like fighter jets,
They serve as cloud feathers, as screams.
Your plaintive swamps crawl on all fours
Your penitents sound at all hours,
Call out their own fame,
And fall with the rain.
Your clocks are floating face down in the waves
Washed up on the beach, dead and pale,
Timeless, clogged, black and loose seaweed swaddled,
Your brain water-logged,
Feet sucked deep under ocean floor.
Our Florida, our Winter Florida.
Blacker your heavens,
More ferocious the lightnings dance.