In which the streets are never named
Willow, or Oak, or Pine, or Magnolia—
only Laperal, or General Luna, or Gibraltar.
In which the sea is more of a rumor
than frost or fog or flood, and ringing
bells still roof the hills.
In which rust-colored shacks
cluster around the swamp, bravely
standing up to rising water.
In which the bread- and dumpling-
makers have been replaced by coffee
shops and shawarma joints.