Recently a mountain
floated past Panama
and washed ashore
and was discovered,
despite a pair of dim
eyes, by two ancient
chessmen ambling
along a burned up
beach in Florida.

And, though secretly
young, the mountain
from the sea with four
sea legs proclaimed in
a sonnet he would grow
older than the marshland
and cousin alligator, the
two rooks now greeting
him would beat his rugged
feet to the Fridgian tree line
groves, where they’d meet
Dido all a wand’ ring, scarcely
remembering her Punici lines.

Those rooks, with their long bills,
clamored up the Galapagosian
hills and rode the mountain further
up the shore to a salt crusted beach
house, home to the Spanish Kings.

There is a new lord with his hookbilled guards, gesturing
with swords to the sunken ships between here and Europa
forgotten and but a dark dream dredged up by an islander
with a pointy stick and a bellowing voice.

“I am still waiting for the Duchess of Haiti, Sun King!”