A Bay-spot Touch

And the sunlit fingers of dusk
They settle into a pot of gold
The droopy eyelids of summer clam-shut against the cold
And the night sharks come out to play
Taunting those rosy digits that plucked and swayed
To the ivory and tinsel of a cold, white clay

Our season of time waits for no wake
pulse be that channel a soft vein makes
Tow in the tugboat lost ashore
His memory is sparse, his keel is sore