Scott Brennan

Down here, in Islamorada,
January feels like August.

Pelicans preen on the docks
and every palm tree looks thirsty.

For the blue-eyed captain from Ohio
decorating his retired nets

with local conch shells,
it is thirty years ago,

it is a wedding in Los Angeles.
His Mercury motor

has begun cursing the water,
spitting at the water, the water

as murky as soup.
And the stars sink into doldrums

while the lobsters fall asleep,
and the seagulls diving for pinfish

go white with the myth
of want and need.

The sequel to night
solders the scenery,

the ultimate vision of the island
to be had from a freighter

rippling across the Gulf Stream
in the rose-colored dawn.