Reticent blue without interruption and should I suppose
more than chimes from cathedral towers left unscattered by water?
Against the rocks in town sheets of spray dive quickly and wine-dark drops
become tears to be wiped clean.
Magisterial and sharp,
unfettered by downpours of caustic ballast— more than weight to drop.
Calloused hands can do no more to ease such heavy and scarred eyesight;
this life will do for living, but will not make for many soft dreams.
There are kings on the docks, their rough crowns wreathed in equal barnacles.
Time separates tide from current, none but the drowned branches breathe by
the merit of dry collapse.
Memory drives close to them,
the tap that is always leaning at times pushes tougher than stone,
but it keeps cold rain above the awning, away from their redness.
Their riches are in the bellies of steamers— the dripping butter.
What other gold could sustain them with such harsh melding to be done?
The blood from aching fingers is warmer than any strange cutter.
Crabs drenched in oil can’t help but dry under an old, weeping sun.
There is no guilt, though the failings of youth drift with us in the tide.
What preparation is needed when every tool has been supplied?
Jack Hanson is a student of Literature and Philosophy at Suffolk University.