Tacking, the square rig tense, and each bending
breeze a rapturous suspension; tall smiles
all around, leaning in toward isles
torn by tornadoes, almost lamenting;
blues on blues, the wild mast a metronome,
hoisting waves that roll and roar and riot,
with all voices deafened in the pilot
house, as we haul squid jigs and head for home.
All is lost, amidst laughter and the squall;
lost Dave pitzing his high-strung violin,
Michael’s cello thrums; lost skipper’s brass grin
at Jerry’s jazzy, sliding keyboard sprawl.
Dark first stars light the giddy levity
above the gushing black hole’s gravity.
- John Kendall Hawkins