City of hot hibiscus of dark magnolia, secretive stiff and glossy-leaved she offers her sleek ivory chalices of nectar, of sweet ambrosia enticing the enamored little gods, buzzing City of live oak, wise and gnarled grandfathers or ancient maidens with dry, mossy hair that gathers in clumps on damp sidewalks Cemeteries strewn with lichen-tinged gravestones red cedar and palm
The city is heavy
dripping with beauty
an outdated gentility
pastel mansions—faded façades like old faces
watching the streets with haughty, black-shuttered eyes
its tourists and schoolchildren and vagrants
A city of humid ghosts
of grime and sweat
elegance and grit
black wrought iron gates
high bricked walls, hiding gardens
dense with fragrant foliage, weeping with dew
It has always just rained, or is about to rain,
fogged windows,
city of piss puddles, of linen-clad gentlemen,
white rocking chairs languish on tiered balconies,
crowds gather near art galleries
limp, sagging palms— charming, exotic giants,
hydrangeas gossip at the edges of streets,
ornamental flowers hanging in baskets, fuchsia and tangerine,
ferns burst from grimy corners,
orange mushrooms sprout between catalpa roots,
fans stir hot air purposelessly on damaged screen porches,
a city of marble fountains, of graceful statues
sickly wet, perspiring
sweat resides on the backs necks, between breasts
A city cultivated, refined, yet unkept,
disheveled underneath,
like a well-dressed elderly couple
who have not quite lost their minds,
but keep combing their hair, wearing ties, high heels, lipstick,
keeping a semblance of respectability,
although they are not far from the grave
The sky lives closer to the earth here, lies heavily upon it,
it hangs in dense greyness, perpetually on the verge of tears
City littered with thin, ragged men
blacker than soil, glistening
shrouded in empty street corners, on park benches
emaciated, strung-out, ruined faces
we avoid their eyes
these descendants of slaves
left to wander among the flowers and the garbage
with their blistered feet and dirty plastic bags
roving ghosts, grey-green wisps of souls like Spanish moss
with drowned eyes, or eyes hardened like bark of palmetto palm,
lost men, invisible men stand blankly beneath the rain
each with his own heartbreak, his lament, carrying his fierce wound
an island of elegance enclosed,
surrounded by a marsh of poverty
seeping in at its edges
decaying bungalows of wood or brick, fungus-smeared
the humidity weighing them down,
the earth seducing them back to soil
moist degeneration
rust-weeping mobile homes
which we think are abandoned but, no—inhabited
hung on backyard clothes lines, mold grows on towels that never dry
crumbling asphalt
chain-linked fences serve as sieves for detritus,
for plastic bottles and tin cans
weeds and gravel and gas stations
waffle houses and cigarette depots
turtles crushed on roadsides
And further out—an eternity of dilapidated farm houses
isolated, burning in glazed marshes of green, of gold
bleak, never-ending highways
reedy, brown swamps
salt marshes spotted with white egrets
where alligators may or may not lurk
thunderstorms perpetually approaching
vicious purple clouds gather in dramatic heaps above the harbor
where cheerful tugboats depart
an ocean liner like a beached whale, waiting to begin its journey across the seas
This city, thick with new life,
bursting, burgeoning
green-black plants erupt, overflowing from corners,
coquettish blossoms seduce thirsty butterflies
plants sprout up and hang down
spring leaves quiver in ecstasy
the dawn’s dewy grass, lustful
amniotic, feverishly yearning to life
Yet a city aging, ancient,
unmoved for generations,
with its great-grandchildren wandering and dying within its bosom
this city of phantoms, of shadow
vines, foliage that grows furtively overnight
swallowing the shameful history of men
beauty covering old sins
a town laden with memory, city of sorrow,
of a lovely sickness, deep and damp
