My nostrils tell me: somewhere mare nostro.
Here the wolf-fish hides his lumpy face in shame.
Pines lean east and groan. Odors of a booze
that’s contraband, are smuggled in by storms.
Our booze is legal Irish and our eyes
develop felons in the endless spray.
Mare nostro somewhere, and eternity’s
a law, not a felony like here.
That derelict was left for storms to break.
One ship passes denting the horizon,
creeping down the world. Whatever gave us pride
(food en route to Rio) dies. The wake could be
that wave we outrun laughing up the sand.
Night comes on with stars and years of dead fish
lighting foam with phosphorus they left.
All day the boom was protest, sea against
the moon. Mare nostro somewhere and no shame.
Remember once, a scene, a woman naked
clowning in the sea while armies laughed.
Her man, a clown, had courage and he came
and hauled her (both were sobbing) up the stones.
If I were strong, if wolf-fish didn’t dive
beyond the range of scorn, you’d be alive.
I can’t say mare nostro. Groaning pines
won’t harm you, leaning east on galaxies.
I know I’m stone. My voice is ugly.
A kelp bed is a rotten place to hide.
Listen. Hear the booming. See the gleam,
the stars that once were fish and died.
We kiss between the fire and the ocean.
In the morning we will start another stare
across the gray. Nowhere mare nostro.
Don’t claim it and the sea belongs to you.