Florida

Like eelgrass through a glass-

bottom boat on the Silver River,

I see the state, obscured yet pure. Derision,

a tattooed flame crackling

underneath the lewd, uncool

khaki of an amused park worker.

I was the sometimes boy on a leash,

my sliver of assent in 1984 —

as if it were my decision.

The I-75 signage, more than metaphor.

As if I had the right to vote.

The slumber parties then were hidden wood;

the tea so sweet, the saccharin

pink and artificial, like intelligence.

The science sponsored in part by chance.

I made my acting debut with the red

dilettante down the street, “Rusty” Counts,

in Rusty Counts Presents: Suburbs of the Dead,

straight to VHS. My parents phoned a counselor.

A palmetto bug read Megatrends on the fold-

ing chair by our above-ground swimming pool ...

The pool shark lurked, but not to fear.

The end unknowable, blue, inmost, and cold,

like the comfort of a diplomatic war.