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Dave Bonta
I found a war
every morning,
a falling out, a field
men killed
friends and brothers for,
stopped like a seal
in a well.
The seal is chaplain to the sea;
I am her fool.
I took my crew to the devil,
and there we drank.
I walk with my old dog
to see a seal—
no words all our way home
A seal came
for the oysters—
a good, broad bed—
and stayed
to stir sand.
This morning too was art,
a ship for a seal.
I walked back to where
I had long thought to live:
in error, like the bull
at home on foot.
Kin to the seal,
I walk beyond the version
of the sea I am.
I bade adieu to a rose,
gave paper to a paper,
drank farewell and drank to one
that would have a place at sea—a seal
who had a great desire to go to sea—
and I went home and sat there
talking old, playing old
till it was time to go lay
in a fine urn.