The captain is drinking rum.
Drinking and singing something.
His song, hoarse, is as sad as the block slowly turning with the halyard;
a seagull, wingbeat hushed, went through the half light astern, whispering.
Soon the moon must rise at the estuary.

The captain's chest too is at full tide with red rum.
At the bottom of its flow
tonight too the tattooed anchor wavers blue.