red sepulchre, red submarine pitched
slant in a bog, once sunken, now come
to ground, a pine bough arcs above
your forecastle swell, a rust-pillaged
wrought-iron gate pairs to your squared
stern, red mottled by time’s rain, port
side an open door mortal with light
exposes wind-splintered trees sprung
bent from earthwormed bodies’ lees
this portal spilling death falls sun
splotched kaleidoscopic in bottomland
water, salamander spawn, yellow weed
how many sailors breathed their last
what mechanism failed, or was it plague
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