A tepid, electric cyan sea splashes,
painting my sweaty knees with salt.
Chest-high, pumping,
thick black rubber hoops pull lazily
‘round a glistening pair of
stainless-steel spokes,
leading me, sluggishly
‘long a sun-poached, yellow-brick path,
one inch closer – ever
to the buoyant, airborne poet’s mind:
the one who is free;
where finally, aloft!
he soars. When,
in the time it takes
this hummingbird mind
to switch a fairy tale’s focus,
a piercing, menacing, hiss and roar
– coastline fighter jet maneuvers
rip mercilessly
through the pale blue tint of surrender
to one blissful, Miami morn’s
staggering
silky haze.