The ocean climbs the beach in search of salt.
It chases off the piper. It licks away
The driftwood. Mulling over his latest fault,
Cupid hides, see? in the dune-grass?, to waylay
Ponce de Leon. Mad from the chlorophyll,
And blunted by a native immunity,
He shoots his angel-shot—not meaning to kill.
It bites as loosely as a skeleton key.
Ponce lets fall the armfuls of potassium-
Rich oranges he had sailed for. He cries one word.
He drops—untransformed within the ho-hum