At dawn, the promise of salt and sea grass
rolls over the dunes
spilling into the steamy funnel of Ocean Drive.

Riding the white light of the early morning sun, a rustle
of Atlantic air caresses
the glass and stucco skin of a synthetic city
that still slumbers;
dreaming of the tropical fruit cocktails
and open flame entrees
that seduce passing pedestrians
after dark.

As the sun rises and falls in its unconditional arc,
it works the musky odor of human sweat into
the sticky sweet passion of shea butter and coconut
until stark white lines
flash against bright red skin
in a blinding, painful eruption of satisfaction.

The smothering exhaustion
of diesel and humidity
drags the afternoon sun, limping
beneath the western horizon.

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