Sunken fishermen struggle to swim
Without anyone warm enough
to shed a tear
and they know who will join the sea.
The night stars illuminate the path to nothing.
for a drunken poet someplace to be other than the wet Caribbean
A ship’s aft lights dim in the dark
and the engines bury the voices of the drunken sailors
who gave you a new home beneath the waves.
Boots floating ever down to the bottom.
One last thought.
Yet I would lead my grandmother by the hand
Through much of what she would not understand;
And so I stumble. And the rain continues on the roof
With such a sound of gently pitying laughter. – Hart Crane