The boat, full hold,

runs in deep cold.

In dusk’s fo’c’sle

we crewmen wear
sheer sleep and hear

snores. Dream of beer,

the slightest fear

of dawn, the work
day brings, its jerk

hard. This murky

night, Skipper skirts

Olalla Point,
rubs swollen joints

and lucky coins,

wants to anoint

the autumn’s plum-

dark with light rum,

chooses milk, hums,

broods as it un-

ravels white threads
in coffee. In bed

we sleep, bugs feed,

skitter on heads,

hands, hearts, and sink
torch tongues in skin

glass smooth and thin.

Little beasts, pin

puncture mouths. Ache.
See how we wake

naked, how we find

the smallest butcher

making of us meat.
Sierra Golden is our Poet in Residence for September.

Previously: 30th Birthday Poem, Working Too Hard, and Intent to Vacate.