This is my university, the flat sea of the Bay.
Even as I speak the rockfish mow its underwater grasses.
This is the morning bell, the hiccoughing start of the day,
the engine catches life, moving me forward, moving me back.
The wind's like a professor's slap, my father's impatience
at my sorry math, my unruly behavior in class.
Of storms, the Bay has many useful lessons:
an anvil-shaped cloud approaching northwest means thunder
and rain. Anchor by four if you can.
In the mouth of the river, a demon's cowl rises, like Batman's—
it's a cownose ray dipping its wings.
I'm quick to furl my sails. Class will run all night.