To Dylan Thomas

'in the gathering darkness,
at the turning of the tide'

Your gentle sea turned up fish eyes
and sucked in a dry wind,
but mine has burned itself to death
in a vacuum of sage and serpents.

The paper skeletons of seahorses and spiny fish
rise and fret the sky with a bone lacework
as dead men writhe in Davey Jones'.

All my lovely locks of coral
open crusty apertures and vomit
ash on a waterless shore.

My hands are wire, lit to a phosphorous
deep-ocean extravaganza, as they expire.
My sea is a fire, reproduction white,
where monsters incinerate innovative bubbles.

Our misunderstood creations are stillborn.
Replicas of flame, lit with half
a borrowed match.