He claims thalassophobia
But explores in the deep
And relaxes in quiet certainty
The words that he should keep
For red from his heart, and blue
From his ocean
Combine in a muddle, a puddled
Emotion
What is it to crave?
An armour man in gold?
A wooden-fence, black silence,
A bearded, hat, high, old?

Maybe just a snifter smells
Or the ringing of a wondrous bell
Can find purchase in its soil
For my hands are cupped
I'm lapping up
The rain for milk has spoiled