FRIED FISH CAFE
The evening sky is red
And so is the wine I’m drinking.
I’ll stay on right here
At the end of this long pier.
O world with your traveling horrors,
Cities burning in the distance,
Coffins piled up to the sky,
Martyrs hung like butcher’s carcasses.
Whatever your secret is, sea wind,
Whisper it in my ear and only in my ear
And then let the gulls
Spread over me their ghostly wings.
—from Rattle #17, Summer 2002