Skiff, skinny, narrow as his favorite gal's thighs,
enough to cover his own body, no more;
bare and tight and long. Copper kettle drum,
screwed to a frame of drift, and shark bone,
brings enough steam to troll for bait fish,
red drum, an occasional shark for parts and oil.
Outlanders pay extra for salt goods, sea salt, saline
drip, byproducts of the little engine that puffs
puffs as he jags into the bay beyond the break
in the sawgrass. He breaks his fast with beer,
raw clams, little nicks, and grinds the meal
between his teeth, sucking their butter
sweet into his sour mouth. It is the only prayer
he can manage, except those quiet nights
at his bakery when he is sober, in love
with a new recipe. Narrows noise goes round
round round that big skull of his, but in marsh,
building-deep and tall, he is loose, a single
voice among sandpiper song, loon call.
The dead don't pay him no bother, a thief
or two, his ex lover's bully, somewhere socked
in the channel mud below his prow, the very silt
of his fattest oysters, bedded on the backside
of a mudbank. he bakes them with a wine
sour bread and feeds and feeds, and feeds.
