After Florida

Virgil guided me past soothsayers With backward-facing heads, but I was worried only about home And the armadilloI once spotted rustling shadowy Backyard leaves.If priests’ rosary beads unfurl and grow Their own thick skin, thatWas one. In hell, I could think only Of home's miles of asphaltVeined through sparse patches of fanlike palm leaves, And mattedSpanish moss hanging off lakes’ thick Cypress trees.Had I been after beauty, I saw it While drivingMy car past flattened roadkill Littering the shoulder,Sending the engine's fumes skyward in thoughtless Prayer, whereas above, angelsExamined the landscape as if it were a mere circuit board Etched with backyards.