In the wake of our ship, blindin’ white ruffles fly
like some petticoat fiesta in old Vera Cruz.
The horizon’s a gash between ocean and sky
[ Is the mail simply slow ? Has she sent me no news ? ]
I think love’s an anchor – perhaps it’s a boat
Or a shore – or a mast – what the hell do I know ?
Or it could be a fish – maybe bait that can float. . .
Or the pain that just follows wherever I go.