Jets fly into the wind above, over us, between heavens and continents, one side light, the other dark, shaped alike. The clouds, the waves, the lizards, the shade move against each other, as sets, or fillo dough, leaves, paper, any pieces of pattern or relief. And the wind blows inland. All turn from the ocean, the thick void of it. From Brighton to Boca, along the edge, people show their backs.
Assimilation lies inland.
High rise intimacy, with all those windows, that much dark, guards sea turtles, scans for satellites, boats, things lit and moving, walks inside, sits on the street to face the sidewalk, El, and dirt. Leaving means veering onto the island. Traffic helicopters close the day. The bait hut shutters. What anglers we are.