Like a black wing angled out
of water, it rose, lured
by the shadow of our boat.
Circled us—no seal—turned
north. I loved a banker then.
The boat was his. Perhaps
the water, too, its small, tin
mirrors. I’d never known the traps
of wealth before: the rigging
of its baits, its blue-barbed hooks.
I, too, have circled, mistaking
metal for a meal, duped
by instinct. Wide, the sea. The oar:
the heart’s dark sail, its hunger.