Not Stevens’ Florida

Ponce de Leon, I live in you today,
my little barque awash in Florida
such as the stars and I alone can know.
These are mornings I’m sailing through your name,
years falling from me as I take it in,
foretaste of that great future we sail to,
imaginations’ winds drawing us in.
Here the crocodiles’ eyes are emeralds,
gulls sleep like albatrosses on the air,
the sun comes up and sets in the same hour
just that we see its purples rung with gold.
Never to drink your future but to sail
thirsty always, oh, what more could I ask?
Those who have drunk have died drinking your drink,
ravenous to cross to that other side
which may not be there when we cease to be,
Elysium, Eternal Florida,
or black sky, black water, oblivion.