The Sightless Sea

Lowing fog horns shake scales from rooftops. We see the seawall drowning, the surging waves rising unfolding spume and brume into mountains. From the pub on the harbor front, we can hear the buffeted gulls feeding on the sluice of passing squalls. "Look out the window" you say (the window is a hundred pieces of sky caught in a fish-eye). "No boats will fish today," I whisper, but we both know that there are small boats out there, they call out like cows, as wind- ghost lead them through gray havens.