At Dawn

A freak spring tide put down a line of salt,
drawn thin around the base of these cypress-
planked walls. Another vernal night, restless
and rising like the swamp: set on default
our talk turns a darker shade of cobalt,
near black, fired by a fevered morass,
until the house's awash in a wild-ass
disaster, born of a tangled gestalt—
enough. Remember last serene July,
the borrowed cottage on the beach, the Dream
Room papered thick with sapphire peonies
and long-leaf pines, romantic botany,
while outside, ichthyology: sea bream
appeared, practiced magicians schooling by.
Carol Todaro


Carol Todaro

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