At the Peninsula’s Tipping Point

                    All I remember is rushing water—
The creeks fed into us
as we wetted each other’s mouths

with brine. Everyone I knew was sixteen
& drunk. Nights, we smashed bottles
on ruined civil war forts. Damp tights stuck

to our thighs. The city kept on sinking,
or swimming, despite the tremors.
Each day, new shakes: thew thief,

brick-rattler, wrecking force. We sprayed
fuck the confederacy on the coast’s rubble.
After living below sea level for so long,
          what else could we do?

Our smoke rings turned to mist
against the palms. We were driftwood,
tidewrack, abandoned dunnage—

always two shots deep & three feet under.
When the skyline sank, we didn’t stop it.
The sidewalk kept splitting open
to let the sea back in.