In His Boat
I dream Northridge is at the water’s front,
And what buildings you see from your window
Are now towering, sky-scraping, yet blunt,
Upright ships splintered from the undertow.
Cowered in father’s hexagonal boat,
From a sea glass bottle pressed to my lips
You pour the marine layer as we float,
My fingers clasp the moon in an eclipse.
And in this cruel, remote vision of mine
My callous blouse is the mast which you furl.
A deep blue, distant storm becomes my shrine
And contours the shape of some unnamed girl.
You whisper, “Rien n’arrete nos esprits,
Between the devil and the deep blue sea.”