A Political Poem
If you're looking for it, the sea's not here.
The day fills with bridges,
while night over-flowers, bores out a bay for itself.
Inside the wave white is a dark salt, so what.
I walk the seashore looking for trouble,
surly & counting the other bad-asses at the clambake.
The corpse found in the surf
is a manual on roses.
We look again to the tankers.
We look to the mothers with their shirts off.
We look to the sea, but it's filled
with milk & honey.