I think this was written sometime in the mid nineties.
Nothing is true of this poem any more, all the persons real or imagined are now dead, past along; fit only as a feast for the birds and dogs.
Upon a flat seascape. A plot of sport, of salt
This is where the ship went down
Twisted metal. Flouncing oil.
The very real fears
Of the wounded.
And I am reminded of your smile
Your laughing neck.
A mocking toss of the head.
And what we call love.
At times I collapse within you.
At times I recoil.