Florida

Like eelgrass through a glass- bottom boat on the Silver River, I see the state, obscured yet pure. Derision, a tattooed flame crackling underneath the lewd, uncool khaki of an amused park worker. I was the sometimes boy on a leash, my sliver of assent in 1984 — as if it were my decision. The I-75 signage, more than metaphor. As if I had the right to vote. The slumber parties then were hidden wood; the tea so sweet, the saccharin pink and artificial, like intelligence. The science sponsored in part by chance. I made my acting debut with the red dilettante down the street, “Rusty” Counts, in Rusty Counts Presents: Suburbs of the Dead, straight to VHS. My parents phoned a counselor. A palmetto bug read Megatrends on the fold- ing chair by our above-ground swimming pool ... The pool shark lurked, but not to fear. The end unknowable, blue, inmost, and cold, like the comfort of a diplomatic war.