In “Fabliau of Florida,” a small boat—a “barque of phosphor”—rests on a palm-lined beach, then seems to slip outward into a sky of “alabasters / And night blues.” The boundary between sea and sky keeps dissolving: foam and cloud become one, moonlight and shadow form “sultry moon-monsters,” and the boat is urged to fill its black hull with white moonlight. The speaker’s voice is calm but spellbound, as if watching a scene turn slowly unreal.
The mood is dreamlike, sultry, and slightly eerie. Everything is luminous and drifting, but the final line—“There will never be an end / To this droning of the surf”—gives the moment an almost hypnotic permanence. It feels less like a travel scene than a glowing, moon-soaked vision of Florida, where the surf’s sound continues forever.