what is left from the warm and wine dark sea?
and what is there before the eye?
the gamble-toss of wasted things
brought forth from clearing decks
from the lagging losses of fragment days
where sailors dock their souls and socks
the dark red place of mud and mix
the gone gulls grate on other skies
done in a whip of wind and scream
where are they now? but no voice asks.
there are questions incised in mud and rock
there are questions blowing at sea-time.