Over the emerald olive oil ocean, mist settles, slowly
sinks, and what dinner seems, won't seem, is fixed

in the flood, in loose ends sizzling, hot red threads
of sun, grain-heaps of dunes, as guests arrive beneath

the squall-line, in broadsides, pitched trawlers, dash
of yawl. Distant figures listen for a next black

catch, as they peer—through anticipatory whispers, thuds
of waves against the hull—for the haloed glow of shrimp

in briny water, translucent fingers stirring beneath the moon,
within its dim-lit mirror, the moon-pan still heating the sea-broth,

simmering in the gathering hunger, then spurting, fizzling
out. Docks lie like crusted burner-plates, black iron grills—all that was frizzled

on them and eaten, though not polished off, now that night passes over
—and under—the face of the deep

in a reflected cloud of smoke... for the last time before break-
fast, and the first...