Low fog stretches along the bay, cold
waves quiver against the sea wall after
a long night of realizations. There’s no going back,
not even Matanzas Bay remains the same. After
the Castillo falls, no one will be there to see the ruins–
only drifting or packed skeletons endure after
concrete and coquina are scraped from the land; adored
skeletons of conchs, glittering sand-dust of Ponce de Leon.
After sun breaks down fog, I will break down, too,
grind into adorned ashes along San Marco.