Miami, 1

Miami. Fetid air, pelicans and mangrove. Sea urchins just sitting there in the Bay of Biscayne waiting to be manhandled, little bone mouths and spines all grasping for the palm of your hand. Ineffectual. Water warm as a bath. Three nerdy girls: we bemoan the general dearth of ocean-safe laminated books. R almost loses her glasses to a strong wave, we fumble for them on the seafloor, blinded by the salt. Find, eventually. Salt residues on the skin. Breathing through air that is mostly water, air that clings like a plastic film on the skin. Feet scraped smooth from walking bare on sand. In the night, distant lightning flicker-flash silent over the nearby ocean, from R's balcony we see big condo towers dark (empty), an airplane perilously close, the bone and muscle insides of the clouds. A canal behind every apartment building, leading eventually to the sea. Everyone has a boat. From above, the land looks like a green sponge, soaked in blue. It is a wonder that the buildings manage to stand at all.