for R.M.

Memory brings us back to such a place—
the rows of photinia, each leaf a red flame
(blood-tinged, almost) violent in sunlight,
the sand not the white of the Caribbean

but the dingy mud-gray of south Florida,
the Atlantic sluicing the reef, whitening it
for seconds at a time, the sea sifting
through porous rock, patiently erasing it.