If you don't stop talking I'll just stay here, and I really need to get up. —R
red as the pants of a Breton sailor the freighter
thrums down the bay, churning the cubic press
of shores, plowing like the sailors say
the old tramp pierces the shade of the world,
engines roaming, hauling off the netted heart
and the flags have that long flag sound
it's a cold night to the blood
when you've trued her up too fast,
let her float so high;
glistening belly, beards of fish,
courses worked to an eerie pitch
below the creamy pilot moon but oh
blue peter, you sailed too soon