Steel-lipped in tranquil
Seas we wail to whales
Without a clue. The haste
Is in the waves and we
Are soaked through to
Wrought sinew. There’s
Love and death and all
That’s left on shelves
Above the stove. Climactically
it’s all enough: this feisty
treasure trove. Impaled, we
are immaculate and gaping.