Walking the line I felt a stalwart black eye of the hurricane blindside me at midmorning. Tore down the street 110 miles per only to find my stop at the end of the whine in Gloucester where I dropped off Olson’s now-fenced entry to the Harbor. A seagull floated me down but I rose like seltzer bubbles all the way to the end, where piers from three centuries ago aggro’ed me into submission. I beat the oxygen to the surface but flailed in the face of the fish company taken over the wharf puked up my brunch and decided to drive up the Cape but lost my way on Bearskin Neck where all the protopoets go for ice cream or to gig their hard drives into submission. Their poet hats are so quaint. I’d like to bust them in the nose.