Malibu, Alaska, & the Fishing Boat Obituary
Pardon, the boat sinking in the peripheral,
dead fish on the dock, that watery blood
smell, shuffling, a quick dance against the
starboard side of the mountain range, locked
crystal cut into the snow range, the bursting
of cold against my tongue,

and in the evenings, with a beer in hand
I sang on the deck, acapella, with the boys
steaming green beans and bacon inside,
complaining about their distant wives, wives
who stay at home with the kids, and I argue
in favor of these women

that I have never met, woman as beautiful
as the Aleutian Islands, the tight slope,
like a woman's hip, and you are sitting beside me
in the twilight, heavy eyed, tell me about
your brother in Malibu, tell me about nothing

and everything, this tiny boat in this big world
with you beside me is the coolest place in the world,
and in my poetical real world panic I recite an obituary
to the moment, the boat teetering, heading back in
for the morning,

departure like quick sand, northward, ever closer,
dawn like amethyst, the creaky bed in the cabin, and
the over washed sheets, soft like a sleep from childhood,

in the other room, you are, a bit drunk. Always just
a bit drunk.