Lobster Boat Woes

The lowing of
lobster boats lives
in my soul,
my body heavy
with nets.
Mended ropes and
lines I throw 
perpetually to the sea.


Dashed across the rocks
the seagulls settle,
nests of white 
in the grey hollow cliffs.
I take to heart
their shrieking,
a cacophonous harmony
to the mournful lost boats
living in my chest.


The lobster have
all swam away,
they left the rocks
for open sea
their pinchers 
unrubberbanded
in attempts to be free.


My heart breaks open
and escapes my mouth
to manifest, not in some
humanity cry,
but the sea's natural 
movement.


From my throat
the lobster boats
sing,
their misty prows
cutting through
the harbor.