i read your poem
over and over
in this landscape
of women

women purring
on balconies
overlooking
the indigo sea

my mother's
blue taffeta dress
is black as the sea

she glides
out my door
to the beach
where sleek white boats
are anchored
under a full,
luscious moon

still
i am still
the wind
outside my window
my mother's ghost
evaporates
in the long
atlantic night

i listen to the radio
every chance i get
for news
of your city's
latest disaster

everything here
the color of honey and sand
everything there
verges on catastrophe
a constant preoccupation
with real estate

everything here
a calm horizon
taut bodies
carefully nurtured
oiled & gleaming
hair & skin

i read your poem
over and over
turning my head
from prying eyes
the low hum
of women singing
in another room

i switch stations
on the radio
turn up the volume
i almost touch
the air
buzzing electricity

james brown 'live at the apollo'
the smooth female d.j.
interrupts bo diddley
groaning 'i'm a man'

it is a joke here
in this baby-blue resort
where art
is a full-time hobby
art
is what everyone
claims to do

women sprawl
like cats
on each other's laps
licking the salt
off each other's skin

and i walk
in search
of the portuguese fishermen
who hide
in the scorched trees
the bleak, blond dunes
that line the highway

i imagine
you asleep
in another city
i take your poem
apart
line by line

it is a love letter
we wrote each other
some time ago
trying in vain to pinpoint
that first, easy
thrill.