This poem is also a good poem that belongs to the sea.
It's called "Oil."
I was working as a writer in the engine room of a tanker.
I went somewhere-- where was it?
"Just north to the Philippines on over to the Persian Gulf.
Soft rain squalls and the swells south of the Boleyn's
late at night.
Light from the empty mess hall throws back
the bulky shadows of winch and fair lead over the slanting
fantail over I stand.
But for men on watch in the engine
room, the man at the wheel to look out in the fire,
the crew sleeps in cots on deck for narrow iron bunks
down drumming passageways below.
The ship burns with a furnace heart, steam, veins, and copper
and burns, quivers and slightly twists, and all of these goals.
Easy goal of the hole and deep vibration
of the turbine underfoot.
Varying with all these crazed hooked nations' need.
Steel plates and long injections of pure oil."