Point and Barb   Storm of my making, near landfall. From the strand, I wait; I sit,                         Then stand and sit again, watching hulls Of dark ships crush sea, pass as if not             Passing, plodding as life.  Haul me In! I shout; net me like a sea             Creature, carapaced and stupidly Triumphant in the net-sweep—                         Better by far than the hook’s point And barb, bloodied mouth, solitary drag   Through the hard, un-wounded waters. Dear me, I’ve bit my lip: I taste a woman                         Near, rain-carried, black muzzled Mouth, blood-salt and sea.     - Jon Ballard