Dawn, a lit fuse. The radioman says

“bombogenesis,” like agates tumbling

from a jar—system as meteorite

off Whitefish Point. In other words, water

lynx, Mishipeshu, lathered up in red.

In a heartbeat, rollers mass two stories

trough to insatiate tempest, unquelled

by prayer nor cigarette, careless, mean,

a cold-blooded indifference so pure,

a strong swimmer won't last ten wet minutes.

At the Keweenaw, surf pummels the stamp

sands with ochre fists, ore boats stack up lee

of the stone, and entire beaches stand up

to walk away. At Marquette, two lovers

walk onto Black Rocks, sacrificial lambs—

their bodies will never be recovered.