Naples, Florida | by Ange Mlinko
A storm breathes—down our necks,
sure, but additionally oxygenated
by its heat air consumption. Because it knocks
concerning the Bahamas, ours is bated;
contemporary water “flies off the cabinets,”
and the coast by decree evacuated,
for we won’t recuse ourselves,
not even on the peninsular finish,
the place the land mass calves.
In the meantime, who can gainsay this pal,
the rosy armadillo, that surfaces?
And this katydid huge as my hand,
greener than cotyledons; surpluses
of dragonflies with hematite
ball-bearings for eyes, and tortoises
that one should run out to within the evening,
within the lightning, to avoid wasting after they’ve
dropped, as from an Aeschylean top,
mid-crossing? As prone to wave
a flag of give up as to understand
my sprint into the highway, the autoclave-
like contraption hissed in its breastplate.
I delivered it to the lengthy grass
simply as the bottom issued an intimate
low Florida mist like laughing fuel
that hides the passage from this world
of cold-eyed underlings in balaclavas.