Eating in the State of Flowers
In Florida, the pigs eat escargot,
the sluggish horses nibble Spanish Moss,
the manatees hold feasts of watercress,
and I can manage only dry Bordeaux
before the steamed ricotta, basil, dough,
and garlic of my favorite pizza place.
I eat and watch the alligators pass
along the docks and sloops and gauche chateaux
of memory, their teeth as cold as stars.
One grips a buck and twists the antlered head.
Another chokes an egret in the mud.
Their young will watch our cities die
and calmly bob on time’s erasing flood,
ignorant of America, outliving God.