Timothy Pilgrim
Last
I Basement turned swamp, floor rotted, john flushed up. Sawgrass out back drooped, died. Coffins once cemeteried rose with the tide, floated dead bones by. Sopped clothes packed, this house, free, painted on porch turned raft, I fled Florida for new home. High bluff, Vancouver coast, sweeping view—oil trains, tankers, black smoke.
38 A
