Newly struck silver clouds live briefly at dusk
Hover expectantly, hugging the West horizon
And vanish with the wind, a slow retreat

Sailors called them silverlings, high denizens of the sea
Not colored like mere sunsets, but bright and suffuse
They were rare then, the wet decks reflected white

Once he crossed the equator, a man could get his first tattoo
Tradition says a fouled anchor, to remind him of home
A very few would have a gold earring, evidence of a survived sinking

I met a man with a ring in each ear
I asked him where she foundered, what luck or God
Intervened twice to save him from the Deep

But there was no man there, not anymore
All baggy bluster, a lolly with variable little winds, unearned,
Like his new blue ink.