Florida An Airedale rolling through green frost, cabbage palms pointing their accusing leaves at whom, petulant waves breaking at my feet. I ran from them. Nights, yellow lights scoured sand. What was ever found but women in skirts folded around the men they loved that Friday? No one found me. And how could that have been, here, where even botanical names were recorded and small roads mapped in red? Night, the sky is black paper pecked with pinholes. Tortoises push eggs into warm sand. Was it too late to have come here? Everything's discovered. Everything's spoken for. The air smells of salt. My lover's body. Perhaps it is too late. I want to run the beach's length, because it never ends. The barren beach. Airedales grow fins on their hard heads, drowned surfers resurface, and those little girls who would not be called back to safety are found.