A Sightless Sea
Chocking fog horns
shake scales from rooftops.
We see the seawall drowning,
the seabed rising,
folding 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 ghost leads them
through gray mountains.
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