When the moon falls on a man’s blood
white and slippery, as on the black water in a port
shaking asunder, and flicking at his ribs —
then the noisy, dirty day-world
exists no more, nor ever truly existed;
but instead
this wet white gleam
twitches, and ebbs hitting, washing inwardly, silverily against
his ribs,
on his soul that is dark ocean within him.
And under the flicking of the white whiplash of the moon
sea-beasts immersed lean sideways and flash bright
in pure brilliance of anger, sea-immersed anger
at the thrashy, motor-driven transit of dirty day
that has left scum on the sea, even in the night.