Swinging like the head
of a drunk in her vise grip,
Ally wields her lamp
as she swings sense
into men surging fists
at each other while outside
the sunny heat of a lazy
October bay waits
to be plucked.
When she's through
screwing heads back
towards knocking shots
back instead of fighting
over her whores,
she finds the one man
whose clockwork boat
can slip around storm
and find her a port
worth docking to. South
Carolina, Port Luce
below the Pirate's belt.
Karl's German steam skiff
can bottom back seas
up to ten feet. Coils,
and boom tilts, iron
and oak planks, a hide-
away bin. One day
east, over Atlantic still,
the storm and all its drang,
like a deathly hallow
crib song sings. Keep
the light low, shutter
closed, the focus of beam
on the German's face
red with ale. Stir him,
rouse him in the light of Indian
summer afternoon;
his surprise like a knotty heart.
