Mangroves

Dusk, and the mangroves
of clouds, which sit low
into reverie; Chinese dragons
mating or big woman riding

chariot, clouds thicker than Whitman’s
beard (all angels have afros);
beneath them the hotels, giant casuarinas
in the half-dark, sawed off

and smoking. Now I must return
from the mangroves with proud
egrets, who know so much
more than me. We must

go back now to the shore
of this new night.