At HARBOUR VILLAGE HOUSE the AGE remains,
scabrous in Miami’s evening light;
a goodbye wink, a kiss to end the night.
The letters, palimpsests of hints and stains,
adorn the old facade, obscured among
fresh banners that proclaim that on this site
a string of towers, glass and malachite,
will be constructed for the Always Young.
And stretching to the north along the beach
are thirty-story slabs in raw concrete;
monolithic, empty, incomplete,
construction halted, future out of reach.
Around these vast, abandoned blocks of gray
the rebar-cluttered sands stretch far away.