Tide is out
black-hulled rowing boats are bloated dead cows
that got in the way of amphibian marines.
The inlet is a murky, slimy river
now its banks are decorated by cans that never rusts
and shout the name of a useless brown drink
that tastes like watered down coughing mixture;
the urine of an empire bottled and sold to suckers.
I have got time,
wait for the tide to return
when cleansing salt water will hide this obscenity.
Dead cows will be boats again
heaving softly on a sea of peace.