From stuff of dreams he wrought
a wooden temple filled with rooms,
each one a simple shrine to her, his wife
and with his eyes he wrote
the scriptures she loved to read.
His lips paid homage,

Lashed by the spray
of whiskey-drenched spittle,
I would heave-to
and batten down the hatches.

Her eyes, two black markers
inside two red ones, spoke
truly in signal