Refusing the Sea

I

As headlands weather a gale,

and barns sleep against weather,

the sea argues hemlock and rock.

Granite and dwarf-pine fend

against wind; the moon floods in

where the ebb tries to tack.

Tonight is nobody's harbor.

Make-and-break fishermen tide

themselves over: they lock

their nets on the groundswell bottom,

and plow offshore to ride

the night out. Their gunwales wash black

and roll clear: the helmsman's eye

is decked with moons. But everyman

fished in his forepeak hammock

sleeps like a gimbaled compass.

As herring survive who school

beyond coves and harbor wrack,

men slept hove-to over fifty

fathoms will, silvered by

fish-scales, net coming back.

n

The bellbuoy rang its tides

all night, banging its changes

against sleep's undertow.

At night in Maine, all night,

the wind climbs into the elms;

the stars revolve their slow

old pattern, turning the moon

to lure new schools of herring.

And we on Main Street, bloated

with heirloom rum, choke

on our fishbone nightmares: son

like father, we never boated

a fish, or gambled a widow

to cast for ourselves. We bank

in Boston, refusing the sea,

while men with Mediterranean

names gaff our daughters

to bed. Porpoises sport

the morning tide while we

tend shop on a chamber pot,

and settle our will in chancery.