Screaming, screeching, tantrum horn —

Startled sleep,

rocking left and right, gyroscopically down, up, a seaman’s lullaby,

some days.

A piece of it, towering, framed by sky’s dimmer-blackness,

alone, jagged, 3000 feet cone, piercing shark’s teeth shoals,

cresting waves,

terror moonlit, postcard perfect,

some days.

Phosphors flickering on then off, sideways wake

of 100 feet of double planked oak hull, under gaff rigged sail, made some place else.

All hands

on the gunwales, halyards, helm, sextant, compass.

 

Where had it come from? The push and pull of blame off South America.

 

Caribbean currents, pushing, roiling around fragment of Venezuela?

Deadly seas, always there, not feigned playful by a Norwegian,

or whatever cruise.

(Can I swim the mile,

or is it three?

survive shoals, sharks, and eat kelp and crab until,

Until when?

Some day?)