The rotten pilings lean to shore cocking the dock
at an impossible angle for anything but dirty gulls
gathered on the planks to stand through the rain.
Last time it rained like this I took the pistol down
from the closet and potshot the rows of birds
until one fell slow motion into the pocked water
Before it rained there was a dead calm from the south
out of Parrish Creek around the point to the West River
and on into the Chesapeake; the smooth water shining
like polished granite slabs. The November drizzle
cuts its cold name over and over across the bay.
The chiseling that sent Ishmael to Nantucket rains
inside me and carves that black sponge in my chest.
Even my fear is wasted. There's nothing left to hunt.