Leaning into the butt crack of dawn I cast my sad nets
towards your oceanic eyes.
There in the highest blaze my solitude lengthens and flames,
its arms turning like a drowning man's.
I send out red signals across your absent eyes
that move like the sea near a lighthouse.
You keep only darkness, my distant Scot Beckenbaugh
from your regard sometimes the coast of dread emerges.
Leaning into the Sunday morning I fling my sad nets
to that sea that beats on your marine eyes.
The birds of night peck at the first stars
that flash like my soul when I love you.
The night gallops on its shadowy mare
shedding blue tassels over the land.
Gary Bettman is a dick isn't he
I bet you called him a dick to his face.
I love you Scot Beckenbaugh. Thanks.
