PRIESTS OF THESE ATLANTIC TEMPLES

The swell of mid-atlantic waves is not
an indication of the love I found
out of your reach on the the last pier facing
the annhilating surf. El Morro
still rises like a barnacled scuba diver
along the shore here, looking
beyond the small city rising
against the beach. So when we sat to dig
bits of shells from our sandals
we became like any wanderers among
hotels, buffets, casinos where singers
bade us entry for ten American
dollars. The shape of the line in front
of the pink hotel girdling shore?
Like trim Texans from Abeline
there to see the thin winter waterspouts
form in the bay, after the show let out.

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