Floyd 2

Neil de la Flor & Maureen Seaton

Floyd 2

Hurricanes pile sand onto paths where boys and boys
walk their surfboards through hollows and tunnels

sucking menthols as the tide unrolls its crushed velvet cape.
There's a surfer missing in South Beach.

There are echoes upstream, delayed orgasms.
This is how it works: tornado, spoon, olive (oyl).

You can invite a sailor, ship or no ship, and,
creeping, decimate your own lung(fish) on shore

like a flopping history of your sexuality in tenth grade.
Or first grade. As a little girl, I used to go down

to the edge of the lake and ignite matchsticks. As a boy,
I surfed Andrew, spermed through his hormonal seas

until my wet suit was sated and my head bald.
I gave up surfboarding and prostitution. However,

I often wonder about the other Floyd, the one ship-
ped to the west coast in a vat of pesto, how he arrived

greased up and grinning with basil in his teeth,
wondering where his and her menthols went.