He had the look, the acrid taste.
Die hard lust for the sea.
Silver chantey, selling me — Come to me,
Marry me. Tarry! Spring and fall with me.
He’d shed tears when he told fish stories.
Tears when I called for a taxi! Moody
Caster of coin, his net scooped me like a herring.
Silver tentacles too — and tongue of copper
When he lashed those lips to mine.
I thought he was old enough, prime-seasoned.
Thought he would sa-vor me. Save me.
But he wasn’t my old salt. Sowed
his dry lot, locked himself in dry dock. As I