They look like rising dough amid the clear
warm shadows in the shallows of the tide.
We perch on crooked benches on Gray’s pier
and watch them bob and float.  His brother died
at sea last year, and these grim clouds of sting
and salt have seen those wave-bleached bones, somewhere
where deep sea meets deep thought.  Lately, I bring
him here each day to see the hollow stare
of those blank eyes, gelatinous and cold,
that trail their tendrils down to something gone.
While beams below dried brown and grey he told
me how his dreams bring skulls, dark-eyed and wan.
He dream of climbing down the ropes those foam
fiends drip below, to bring his brother home.


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