Like lengths of spaghetti or croquet hoops
Pipelines stacked on the jetty.
Around them, cranes in suspension
Claw like dentists’ drills.
Containers are less than their shadows
Under sky the colour of putty,
And heat, swooning to mirage,
Only tankers move in the Gulf,
Their wakes unzipping silence,
Their crews mute signatories
To a war at half-cock.