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The Slender Scent


by James Robison


The rebel angels have done their work.

A water moccasin esses in the condo's aqua pool, a wobbly black stroke.

Against the storm sky's ink blue, in hyper real focus

phosphorescent radiance

defines the hedge, pool house, wild rose.

I live on a green plane between seas: the backlit ocean of sky

and the thrashing olive Gulf. You catch the slender scent of pineapple

on a maple table in sun under the western facing window showing St. Ann's Church,

icewhite and modern, , behind the many trunked and

colossal banyan with shade enough for a city block.

She will protect us from ourselves if we work, if we work.

A bailiff will hammer on that door

with a Notice of  Intent to Levy or the thirty-day eviction

from the court. The TV's screech next door will partner with

the manic laughter of gulls. Your sorrows just kill them.

Mangled in filament, the pelican will

unfold from her valise-like nap and try, panicked, to fly.

She won't, can't. East of the marina above the river, God's own wrath is

told in old thunder.

You asked for this.

Where the rust and moth do not consume, nor thieves steal, there will I be

If I just work, if I work.

  

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