Bret R. Crabrooke (04/10/1978 / Berrien Springs)

Walking out in the roses and the waves
Not knowing where I am,
And you not knowing why you feel the need
To bring your body so near to me
When your eyes are so far away,
Engorging.
And the mountains are filled with evil spirits
While Pedro takes off his close,
And the Christmas trees sleep like starving conquistadors
Fearing that they have been brought too
Far into the wilds of the state of Florida,
Beautiful men so full of turquoise thrills.
Men on roller-skates,
Men slinging the news to girls who live in their mothers
And fathers trailer parks,
Girls who always go out tattooed and runny like liquid
Throws,
Who know the cries of unbowed rebels,
And who sing once they have their Christmas tree decorated
In their tin cans,
And the canals flow so torpidly while two boys
Skip school
Underneath the crenulations where the Florida holies grow,
And the foundling tiger opens its eyes
And seeing the shade through the chirping canopy
Thinks it the pinstripes of its luscious mother,
Superimposed and handsome he closes his eyes
Again and dreams the dreams of a young
And handsome tiger out back behind the rows,
Or at least that is how my story goes.