a city of bulwarks, home to pent up water-gazers: side streets 

a dreamy seaward throw: glimpses

of fixed rigging: rain-washed benches clinched to deliberate

land: a very nearly world, a city philosophical

whenever November: sea growing grim, I strive to find 

counter reveries: breezes pistol the ocean: wharves 

are silent sentinels: nothing surprises

seated northward, I lean into spume: my mind slips

by degrees: my gaze conjures ships of mortal sight: all old hats

hooked, each false step nailed, I drive off other waves—

 

elsewhere in the city philosophical, a siren sounds: at the coffin 

warehouse thousands stand, crowds like green fields, each 

little mouth a watery part: torn bills posted years ago weep red 

in some damp city, each drowned bulwark a bloated hope: each 

buoy a substitute head.