Humanity flourished the gardens,
IVs replenish dehydrated seeds. She dug
through soil, with carmelizing fingernails to gash
a flood of vapored veins, flowers wilted in twisted
beauty. She held onto bruising stems and curling leaves,
just to abandon a husk in undetected love. Its carcass left
in black and blue, burgundy residue slathers pale petals.
Jewels lay at the Dahlia's crest, beads of ruby sold at the
cost of swelling mischeif. She's a mistress to demons; slaves
to the halo, obeying life within silver wings, crafting a
prolonging Death.
All feedback is welcome!
Their songs call him out
To the watery Sound
Beyond the long island;
Past high-rise apartments
Packed like sardines;
Past graffiti-smeared strip malls,
along rumbling roadways
Littered with mattresses,
And occasional gated green enclaves.

He sails out
To cavort with the
Humpbacked and Fin,
With dolphins and seals
That live out of sight
Of the swimmer, the surfer,
The lover of jet skis, of yachts
And of gritty brown beaches.

He knows them by sight
and he names them by scars:
There’s ‘Hammerhead Right’
The little harbor seal,
Marked with a rip
behind her right ear.
Or ‘Enterprise,’ who carries
A gash shaped like the ship
Under his torn gray front flipper.

He researches, records,
And brings out the tourist
to see these soft mammals
Who suckle their young
In their alien home
At the salty wet rim
Of the sprawling, concreted land.

He researches, records,
he names, and he counts.
But how they were scarred,
Or how they live on,
Remain locked
in their watery
memory.
Inspired by an article in the New York Times about Dr. Arthur Kopelman, who runs the Coastal Research Education Society of Long Island

— The End —