Dream of the Southern Sun

Like everything, it was gone

before I opened my eyes. The dream,

I mean. What I remember

is the sun — the southern sun —

high in the clean, blue air, cutting

arrows through the mist.

In Florida, the sky swallows

nearly everything, save

for the sea, which,

of course, has a thirst

of its own. Barefoot, I stood

watching while the sun speared

himself through the slats of the fence

and into the space behind

my eyes. It is morning

now, and soon, even this will go.

But for now, I’ll keep them closed.

I’ll keep them closed.