The potter’s field of the sea, where so many
have been buried bereft of names.
The tombstone of the moon marks where they lie.
The gravedigging waters that buried the men
who smelled of salt and the faint whiff
of whiskey from an empty flask,
bless them. Bless the real, the actual
weight of bone and blood that bears us
under, that believes in decency, in the cold
coins that pin the eyelids down
like paperweights that pin open
books of drawings of birds.
Thank God for what in us seeks
the dark, the secret depths,
whatever it was Crane and Kees sought.
The bodies of those buried at sea
are counterweights: As they sink
they make the moon rise,
a tombstone even more anonymous
than those in country cemeteries
that say, simply, Baby.