We bob, we bob discarded corks of a king gone mad Pale oceanic arms wrap us in frothing swells Our soft pink fists bleed warmth into the wet Our cries, our cries not drowned by roaring waves crescendo in outrage Freeze the marrow of sentries on the shores Mewling we flail at the mad king’s spume We sink, we sink tumble down to seaweed beds curl beneath the timeless sand Gurgle at ease with fish who nibble our toes We listen to lullaby tides as Sirens sing their deeds Come join us, come join us as guilty as any who ever breathed We suckle mother sea anchored by Arthur who would submerge a thousand Mordreds and a future all too clear Leading Edge Spring 1994