Low fog stretches along the bay, cold
quivering waves relapse against sea wall, after
a long night of realizing there’s no backwards–
no body of water remains the same, no body remains…
After the Castillo falls, only drifting (or packed)
skeletons endure. Concrete and coquina are scraped
from the land; adored skeletons of conchs,
glittering sand-dust of Ponce de Leon in a bottle.
After sun breaks down fog, I will break down, too:
grind into sea ashes along San Marco…
After dream logic settles, drifting along black waves–
I will exist. I will not exist, but merge, and so remain.