Last

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.

II

Gulf risen, gone east to greet Biscayne Bay, deniers dog-paddled there, trapped, squeezed, contained. They tweeted, texted, blogged, played with their phones. Ate seaweed, dreamed it was filleted, creped, creamed. The last were the last to drown—even the aftermath steered clear, still went down.