Bluefish Lane
The whole west side of the road
intentionally wild
protecting beach dwellers
from the munitions dump
across the river. No one tames
wax myrtle extending its long fingers
towards the street, leaving it to mingle
with sweetgum, oak, and the dead sticks
of something that rotted in last year’s hurricane.
You can lean a long time brown and broken
in the woods
and no one denies you
your place
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