North of heaven, this narrow inlet
is jettied for some protection
but certain safety is scarce
unless you dare not venture
beyond the Atlantic sands and
scattered seashells at ocean's edge
high or low tides bringing chipped
china and tumbled horse bones
from an 1890s slaughterhouse barge
restless in the deep in the dark
South of heaven, the curve of
a ferris wheel circles
at night sparkling and hesitant
as lovers scream like seagulls
oblivious to the rotting yawl
that ran aground, left to linger
although no lives were lost that day
unlike when stealthy ships
unlit, unflagged, unmarked
were sinking during times of war
West of heaven, the bay preens
for the tourists, displaying
seafood, lemons, local lettuce,
tomatoes, herbs and trinkets as
the fishermen work from
dawn to dusk except on Sundays
when they show up at church
weathered faces wearing sandals
singing lustily before being
blessed to begin again Monday
East of heaven, where the
ghost ships lie waiting
barnacled and camouflaged
wrapped in black seaweed like
unseasonal Christmas presents
hold tight to your children because
leftover laughter and dashed dreams
from soggy souls trapped
in stranded vessels seek without eyes
or fingertips to devour the living
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