In the roan hour between then & then again， the now， in the Babel

    Of a sorrel ship gone horizontal to a prow¹ of night， the breach² of owls³

    Abducted⁴ by broad light， but blind， in the crime， the titanesque of rare

    Assault——we who have come back——petitioning， from the chair

    Electric with bad news， from the stunning⁵， from the narrows

    Of an evening gall⁶， from the mooring⁷ of an hour slanted⁸ on the follow

    Bow， she rose from a bed of Ireland like a flyted trout⁹， a shiny

    Marvel¹⁰ on the sailor's deck， an apologia——divining——

    As once， as at a salted empire port， he washed

    Her fleeted body & they lied， the best of them， the cream & crush

    Of this， the madrigal¹¹ & sacrifice of that， the best of them，

    The slowest velvet¹² suffocation¹³ of their kind， did not come

    Whittled¹⁴ back by autumn， at an hour between thorn & chaff¹⁵，

    Not come riddled¹⁶ with oblivion， the crossing & a shepherd's staff，

    The moment between Have & Shall Not Want， we who have salt

    Always know， that we who have——the best of us——did not come back.