How desperate is the sun to stay afloat,
the sullen burning orange. The gulls
are not yet sated here,

quarreling for scraps and tidbits
clinging to the crusted foam
at water's edge. A buoy stands alert,

the bay's floating sentinel. Nearby,
an angler, struggling in the gloom,
strains to pull his tarpon in.

The harbor master knocks the rosy embers
from his pipe and, shrugging,
wipes his salty chin. In the water

by the tiki bar, a manatee disturbs
the surface, bobbing for rainwater
engendered by a sudden storm.

Refreshed, she spies a drunk, and disappears.
How quickly even purple fades to grey,
to twilight, and then the eager nothing.

Still, insufficient creatures that we are,
we feel the surging in our marrow,
pulling us further, further out to sea.