Spanish moss hangs from immemorial oaks
Laying shadows on uneven porches.
White planks race nowhere.
Gin is silver, still without the yoke.
Trading life for sugar, back from Rome,
A fleet of soft beignets are docked.
Dark powder born of balmy island air
Makes one man sick, while another turns the wheel toward home.
The hurricane comes to undress boats.
A virtue hides in a liberated throat.
The sidewalk gets behind your eye,
But the medicine in tins and glass
Uncorks the fury across the street.
A mosquito stops to give his line,
“Look the other way for Jean Laffite.”
A leg of ham unhangs itself
And waits for the blood to flow again.
Behind a veil green oysters keep their secret dry,
While the moccasin clutches his iron map.
The oldest room in the country.
1 'immemorial' stolen from Emerson, Poe and Eliot.
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