I saw an isolate, angry cloud 
swirling , and receiving patterns 

in the water below shouted
cry havoc and release the kraken,

a something Lovecraft when the warmth
above met the North Atlantic brack water—

black in the night.  True to form,
I sailed with a moon most grateful;

there were ice edges about me,
with hopes of a guitar to accompany me.

My fingers, though.  I heated them
over kerosene, and they remained

solid and fixed like a Polaris or a Sirius
with Orion declaring his witness.

I wouldn’t be out here looking for her,
weighing us down, weren’t I a sentimental

fuck.  It doesn’t get any better sweet one;
I see tide, the call of a blue eye twinkling,

the sunshine of blonde hair on the water,
the lie as deep as it goes with towers

10 years of octopi high.