Issue 150, Spring 1999
The ocean climbs the beach in search of salt.
It chases off the piper. It licks away
The driftwood. Mulling over his latest fault,
Cupid hides, see? in the dune-grass?, to waylay
Ponce de Leon. Mad from the chlorophyll,
And blunted by a native immunity,
He shoots his angel-shot—not meaning to kill.
It bites as loosely as a skeleton key.
Ponce lets fall the armfuls of potassium-
Rich oranges he had sailed for. He cries one word.
He drops—untransformed within the ho-hum