Dos

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.