Everglades

The sun is no more than a ball of gum

Quite pretty in the clouds, and when it goes

Somehow the pinetrees weep the loss of love.

This is a country of strange reflexes

Between the sand and the blank blue above;

There are no seasons to perplex the mind,

But when the sun goes down in flannel mist

The middle distance has an ugly twist,

A fresco manner, mildewed and black-lined.

The weather forecasts are mysterious-

As if this were a land of solstices

Made neat with sets of autumn and of spring!

The snakes are undulating in the brush,

The slattern palms stand like old turkey dusters,

The pines throw out their bellies shamelessly

And colored men are not of many lustres;

This is a back room of the jungle where

Old democratic emblems gather dust,

Where nights in an offhanded manner tort

The patient daylights with their constant lust.

Within the reeking marshes, in their skins,

Dank alligators gambol in pure sport.