Dusk Walks in Key West

If only I could capture the scent of humidity

in the aperture of a disposable camera—

to hold all of Fleming St. under hydroquinone

in a darkroom, each fading porchlight

phosphorescing in a sinking procession

of Kodak Moments.


The moon, its careless murk,

and every stranger in a denim jacket are

transmutations of the patron saint

of streetlamps in white sheets.

In the parking lot two men stand

how two men would stand

if one man was selling communion

to the other one, like Him crowned in

palm shade and husk of rhododendron,

and a rooster crowing.


Far be it from me to step between a man

and his vices. Lord knows I invite in

the bougainvillea that makes a home

of rain-wet hair, keeps ledgers of silt deposits,

I build close the walls of the reservoir

against the brashness of a key

turning in its lock toward a kiss,

strange and alluvial.

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