Florida br br An Airedale rolling through green frost, br cabbage palms pointing their accusing leaves br at whom, petulant waves breaking at my feet. br I ran from them. Nights, yellow lights br scoured sand. What was ever found br but women in skirts folded around the men br they loved that Friday? No one found me. br And how could that have been, here, where br even botanical names were recorded br and small roads mapped in red? br Night, the sky is black paper pecked with pinholes. br Tortoises push eggs into warm sand. br Was it too late to have come here? br Everything's discovered. Everything's spoken for. br The air smells of salt. My lover's body. br Perhaps it is too late. I want to run br the beach's length, because it never ends. br The barren beach. Airedales grow br fins on their hard heads, drowned surfers br resurface, and those little girls br who would not be called back to safety are found.