MARITIME

The wrong red sky,
a pin-bright waxing moon & I
am pieced by weariness,
          hooves smack
          the metal hull
as frantic horses fall
into the sea.

Saltwater's god
's joke, us mostly made
of water, we go astringent
at sea:   a mouthfull
of brine  razoredged
          mussels, blood mostly
salt too, pillars of it
stain the seawall, seagulls
          drop shelled things
onto the fierce rocks, eat
what's soft left inside.