Monsters these men fear not,
for the one that they tread on
has their fraying nerves taut.

Her beastly green waves
chop and churn,
the eyes of the denizen beneath
black and stern.

Seagulls cackle and taunt,
their white bodies mocking
the darkness in the fisherman’s soul.

And like the king at an opera,
the moon watches over;
King Moon watches solemnly
as these burly men
pick the fruit from the sea’s
treacherous womb.

As night’s glassy eye
closes on the
slick, metallic bodies
of writhing creatures
and pride-marked men,

The waves crash,
the seagulls giggle,
King Moon calls for order,
and the sea cries out for her lost babies.