Spanish moss. (Source).

I recently discovered an old notebook of mine with several poems I had forgotten about writing a few years ago. While I don’t intend to publish much of my own creative work on this site, I liked this piece enough to offer it up for your consideration.

Fernandina

Spanish moss is a
green garland at dawn and a
gibbet at twilight.

The sea is foaming
at the mouth again. Someone
ought to put it down.

The bricks, like whores, are
washed in salt and made sooty
once more in lamp-glow.

I see your face there,
reflected in the postcard
nestled in my hand.

Amidst the buzzing
kitsch, it whispers a simple
note: “Wish you were here.”