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ISSUE:  Winter 2004

There is a Florida beyond the stars.
It is the same state I find waking here,
alone with my aloneness in the dark,
all things now possible because my own.
I have only to speak and it is dawn.
Look, in my words the sky and water meet,
my name is spelled out on the horizon’s edge,
the sun rips open as I call the light.
And now the gulls—come, come, come, little ones.
You are all colors conjuring can bring
from nothing: red redder than all red,
purples swirling from black to violet,
all this on the most ordinary wings
imaginable as I begin today.
Florida, site of all the possibles,
imagination’s dwelling place in me.
Ponce de Leon, set sail again, my friend.
The fountain of youth bubbles in my hands.


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