A ganglia of offenses from afar
Has bound expression, cordoned off response
In a sticky tincture of fumé noir,
The heightening wall of burning bushes,
Voices from the whirlwind rushing forward
To the white porches of our dominion –
Strutting basilisks which are but the masks
Worn by the hidden, unindictable
Culprits – the pigs lower than they of sticks
And they of straw: they of vinyl siding,
Now hung in drooping festoons of melted
Marshmallow and retched up banana pie.
What was once a field of earth-lusting green,
Delirious with sunlight and salt spray
Has now been rendered in mute blacks and grays
As a crime scene of suspected arson--
Palmetto roots surging forward in the
Eye like an armada of gondolas
Seeking rivas where no rivas could be–
Coast Guard Road, with its regimental ghost
Riders still galloping through the night, now
The known demarcation where east meets west,
Where the toe line in the sand has been drawn,
Where lawyers convene, resolved to absolve.
