He used to talk but sailors shut him up
one piece at a time like
something out of a Johnny Cash
ditty resounding off brickyard pockets of energy
floating where things float
because they do in certain
locales if you look closely.
Barnacled rocks dotted the lengths and widths and circumferences
and other geometric distortions on reality
that do meaningful things
if you believe in things
that are meaningful.
He used to roll with the waves,
slippery slopes of crashing brine
unlike the oatmeal the sailors packed down tubular,
truncated esophagi that swallowed tightly,
loosening for a red dawn that
meant bloody waters from shark attacks.
He was used to shark attacks.
They signified freedom.
Or was it release?
He often confused the two.
He used to talk but things change,
even stone immutable.
Add one billion gallons of Freon to
an ocean of saltwater and the
muted archipelago won’t mind.
In fact, it won’t say a word.