Frantic Atlantic

From the wood pier
in Annapolis, the ocean

is a steel pot overboiling,
a bed too stifling and deep

to imagine cradling you
without destruction.

You have no proof
that anyone could survive

here on the edge of abyss
 —despite the naval academy

and its glowing pretense
that some kind of safety

is possible. Under the current
something is very wrong,

sickness you can’t escape
awaiting you in tainted oysters

and false kindness, coastal
charm you love until it’s time

to pay. Even this moonlit pier
creaks in terror, the shearing

of foundations we all know
will never last ‘til morning.