my frail father labors
in our dodgy dingy
against the green muck
of our rotten cove.

emerald waves turn puke
in this stinking shadow
and splash against
his worn weeping face,
as he knots
the one knot he knows
and know not
our tangled knot grows.

morning come we paddle out
beneath the ashy globe
to spear dumb grey fish
and net & drown idiot gulls
and salvage splintered planks:
our means to pipe
somber clusters
on sour old reeds
come our nights
as they haver have not..