Liquid through liquid,
pull your RPMs out of the gulf,
siphon your tight corners and squealing wheels,
road trips and errand-days
out of rock, though warm clouds of fish.
Suck out the heat for your three-dog night,
the blue ring for your risotto,
feed it to the homes and into the air,
feed it to the birds.
Don’t mind the bodies, man and pelican,
and amberjack and shrimp and heron.
Don’t tell your kids about the dolphins or turtles,
the dead marshes, the killer beaches.
Eat your she-crab soup, your bluefin sushi,
look at the lights out on the water,
where the lifeboats ran through slicks like mud,
where a concrete well-cap is an unseen tombstone.