Home Run

The razor beak that cleaves the winedark sea
throws up white foam. Strapped firmly to the mast
I want to see and listen to the last,
adustly certain what the end will be.

As sirens sham security, the crew
have stopped their thoughts with earphones (rock and roll
will serve as well to stupefy the soul)
and blinkers on, can't fathom what is due:

Ahead, against the darkling sky I see
the roving rocks, and down the chasm roars
the ill-used water. Blind, the crew ignores
their imminence, nor can they hear from me –

My warnings go unheeded. Past the rocks
the blue drops back to purple, then to black,
the warders' grinning teeth about to crack
our speeding vessel like a seashell box,

and as the distant purple clouds immerse
the white-topped waves in gore, the storm refutes
our haughty confidence. Poseidon hoots
as we run headlong to our well-earned curse.