I Could Live in Florida

if only for the summer rains.
I could withstand the terrible
consumptiveness, the unbearable
tension between the red necks
and the New-York jews,
the surreal and unavoidable
dualisms and triple-isms
of the place if only I could
smell the rain before it came
for its afternoon unbridling.
I could become its heir if it
only let me. I would keep
the flame alive so long as I
lived, the deluges, the electric
skies, the tearing down of
everything and making it new
again. I would make my life
of those tremendous torrents
if I could find the strength.
In Florida, when the sky opens,
when the legions of birds fly
for cover, when even the perennial
wanderers, the wayfarers, finally
head indoors, everyone in every
dry corner purrs at the warmth
of it all, at the thought that
we can start anew tomorrow,
at the flooding which feels so
very much like a final pouring
out of what we've always meant
to say to the ones we love.
I could live in Florida if only
to let the rain remind me
who I've always wanted to be,
what I've always intended to say,
how I wanted to be remembered.
I want to be remembered as a man
who stood for rain.

(2008)