Wilmington
If you could forgive the palmetto bugs
blanketing the slick rocks under the dock, the dog
shit left to shrivel on the salt-washed wood, a man
emerging from below, mud-stained to his shoulders,
his cage of crawfish and a look up your skirt, limp
body breaking at the end of the slips, face bloated
and mercifully turned to the reeds, the Riverwalk
could be lovely—if you could keep your eyes
on the current, the clever lilt of little whitecaps
that belied the rush, the dip and tuck of birds
on its surface—in Tennessee, you knew the Cumberland,
Mississippi, muddy hunger widening with every rain,
but the Cape Fear is a filament, a wick, Atlantic finger
digging a road into or out of Carolina.