Five months after the flood
left it weak and trembling,
bones are floating up
from the earth. Vertebrae
scattered across the breezeway,
ribs rising from underneath
the bed and breakfast on Orange Street,
a skull found below the wine shop,
jaws stretched open, hoping
for a sip.
The archaeologists come
from Gainesville, talk of blue gloves
and carbon dating, examine every chalky
remnant, and tell us
these are the first settlers, lingering
below shifting ground for five hundred years.
But they are telling us what we already know:
this town is made of coquina and cannonballs —
buried, drowned, it rises.
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