We sit on the porch at supper,
so homesick for the Atlantic,
we cast, catch, reel it west—
a thousand miles across 17, 95, and 20;
across the Pee Dee, Mississippi, and Red—
till sure enough, it smacks and thrashes
right over Shreveport, LA. Comes to rest
with the tide-swell of cicadas,
the hushbaby waves of wind
through heavy-leafed oaks
outside these old screens.
When they weep, the hawks turn into gulls.
Orange cannas break into flame—
tiki-torches from the 1960s, back
when our tans were deep, bodies lean,
feet sore from that trek on the shell-sharp waterline
from Huntington Beach to Litchfield
and, when the moon drank the tide down,
across to Pawleys Island. . . .
Sting of lemon on grilled trout,
crisp burnt skin. Just as we used to,
we cut the salt with gin.