Cassadega, Florida

Summer. A toad died in a plastic habitat,
sparrow nestlings in the grill fledged,
the Don Juan rose’s ups and downs
were managed with a spritz of sulfur at
intervals, the St Augustine was edged;
and at the crossroads of the town

there was almost nothing to trumpet
the psychic capital of the world, albeit
a unified aesthetic seemed to have bled
from a great purple pen, whose stet
could be read in the sign-up sheet
and hand-crafted amethyst death’s head.

The dead had gone abroad while
vegetation marched on the veranda.
We imagined that they had surpassed,
...