bermuda. 1997.

The air was balmy and rank
with hot points of rain.
We were taking off
three days before a hurricane was due
and already the palms bared their necks,
genuflecting with long hands;
at the prow of the storm I at eight was waiting
while the blue-gouged clouds
wetted the windows with long tongues.
Somewhere a rented bungalow
hunkered under its pale shingles.
Six beds stood in pale new livery.
And back home our old white house
black-shuttered and doused
in pale light as we'd left it was waiting.
The water moved serge
and deep as a giant's cup
under the pearl-white plane.
Out of the white
brief light new mouths in the sea
huge and solemn were opening.