The Pig's Head

O lard the porcine god
floods our souls,
under beer we bend,

rough backed backed  before
the head that is not cold,
surprised eyes not gentle.

The real one has fled the rain,
steps in mud break our secret.

The tide might remember.
The moon fierce and scolding.

2. Salt

Scour the pits of saline gut,
fish open like a lust cut.
Strain the turf.

The near sea of salt twins
will cool our palms with the
coins of lost waves.

Dumb the salt pulse.

3. The Church Under The Sea

Perfect under the glass ebb
but not silent.

The Bell
calls us back to the church

of tide and sway, to the
sacrement of **** and silt.

Deep we seek our service.