The mangrove holds the ocean back,
but takes the sea into its nostrils.
Roots reflected in the water,
a spiny möbius
sipping the tea colored sea.
The night sky bends down under my kayak,
a man in a mosquito tent buffaloes all night next to me.
The prince of storms
is tuning up to the south
like a chorus in Aida
or Sikorsky helicopters shuffling cards.
Tomorrow my pea pod vessel
must bear the weight of my fears.
