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.