poem: wedding in florida

The green sqaure, crisp, run over
with squeaking tennis flats, sunshine
whites: a body in back-arc, perfect line of taut
muscle that curves in, like lips tersed or
bow of a ship, and flicks back — slam and hit.
The dropping hurricane sky. Face above
the green-gray chiffron, floral bag; lost a lot
of weight quickly. Sprawling orange
church stained glass stations and saint Augustine’s
mother in tearful knee-bound agony; sitting
together wet dress against
my chest, we can hear the courts out
behind. Froth of red-gold flowers in a long trail
and then train of white, her small
doe head. He has the nervous beaming
of a shirt fresh out the dryer, crumpled
hands in hands: I can hear the final swat
of the serve the priest says let them
be one their heads, two pale petals,
draw near and unite inside and
behind there is the dark sticky bulb
they thrum together where we cannot see.