Now that the
morons have won,
so important to dream. Clutching
our wondrous nights, we see
fishing boats pulled onto shore,
green hulls and blue, with their
Sancho Panza, Blue Angel,
or Destroyer of Worlds.
Sky looms like no sky, reddish
mass of gathering cloud rubbing
over skeptical sea. In the wells
it is fish we smell. Together we work
the lines, hands raw in blinding wind.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Steve Klepetar
would be pleased to hear