Each night crowded with image-dreams,
Words run in rapids through my head:
Tumble from the rivermouth of my pen.
A sole streetlight streams jazz through the night,
Prints paisley patterns on my bedroom walls —
All focus starred by the onshore breeze.
Halyards ripple empty rhythms of tattoo,
A ghost chorus of metal noise,
Their message mangled in transmission.
Anchor lights gleam against the shore:
Fitful stars against this sky with no moon —
True stars mark the passage of time, not waves,
Chart a course unplanned by man.