401k

no voyage—
the lanterns all hung off until
they are pink-toured
pails of glass and tin

snow filtered fish
budding up against the hull
this south salt sloop
that sailed once as far as Kodiak

once as far as a neighbor
who also practices Kula exchange
a belt of shells
rhubarb sea bone that changes hands
every brother year

a clutch of bivalve
homes you can wear around your arm
as you exit to fish around a horn
or cape

the northwestern waters
whose toll-shunted coast's
state gem is petrified wood
something which, like you,
can no longer float or drift

even in a salt lake

so what bead have you brought to trade
or what millstone of a gift to give
all the symbols that tie you to a place

the penny worths
and joys of being near water
near outland fog that inclines
a wingspan blocking the sun

you stay moored
like a falcon bell
your boat

wallows in the thin script of its name
since you have nothing to give
there is no reason
to break the wake

laws or make more noise
than the light coastal
spruce-snow of slippers

You are so talented.

you stay moored
like a falcon bell
your boat

wallows in the thin script of its name
since you have nothing to give
there is no reason
to break the wake

I'm not sure what it is about this, but all I can say is beautiful. So beautiful.

I'm not 100% enthusiastic about the way you've structured this poem, but it seems very deliberate, so I don't think you should change it. You have a wonderful way of making words flow together, and the whole piece just felt so lonely to me. I really didn't understand it, but that is such a good thing because all I had in the end was a sense of feeling and that is so important in poetry, and really hard to achieve. I love it, a lot a lot a lot.

The title is very effective, I've never seen anachronism used to create such strong cohesion between the eras, I mean, usually it's kind of tongue in cheek, self depricating, reenforcing the split. The title is not patronising, in the context of the poem it is a strong gesture.

no voyage—
the lanterns all hung off until
they are pink-toured
pails of glass and tin

Here is a stupid question, what is the pink? I have an image of like, seaweed, lichen, barnacles, some sort of growth. Something about 'toured' I don't like, I like the 'p' 't' 'p' it is delicate and lightfooted, more effective than straight alliteration, the tour to the pail is jarring. Turrets or somesuch might have an edge of symetry, but I'm still not happy with the images. Metaphorically this stanza is convincing, subtle, it doesn't push the symbolism between the usefulness of things and people, but is clear enough that it is not obscured.

snow filtered fish
budding up against the hull
this south salt sloop
that sailed once as far as Kodiak

Careful on the alliteration, my sweet, you don't want it to pull focus. Effect over purity, spring for soft consonants and supporting vowels to make this sea. Choose the waves and the breaks and structure the sounds accordingly. "south salt sloop/ that sailed once' is one too many, makes it cute rather than careful, also because 'that' and 'once' are strong words but inelegant, frame it gentler or use the aliteration to lead into a subject word to create the wave peak. Choose your battles.

once as far as a neighbor
who also practices Kula exchange
a belt of shells
rhubarb sea bone that changes hands
every brother year

I don't have much to say about this stanza. It is understated, I like 'every brother year', the lines establish what they needs to. It is not terribly striking, but it has exactly the right tone, which is harder. Very immersive.

a clutch of bivalve
homes you can wear around your arm
as you exit to fish around a horn
or cape

Okay, so that was cute, but it fit in its cuteness. It wasn't O Henry-I'm-going-to-show-you-exactly-how-convoluted-I-can-be-when-describing-a-simple-action-but-you-will-read-it-and-like-it, it evokes the title in a way, investment properties. I would be interested to see how you approach psychologically unfamiliar territory, where you establish yourself, becoming empathetic to the projected character or pulling them out through your own experiences, but my guess is a little of both.

the northwestern waters
whose toll-shunted coast's
state gem is petrified wood
something which, like you,
can no longer float or drift

even in a salt lake

There, right there. You do have an eye for metaphor, mon frere. Something made precious through its loss of usefulness. Also the salt/snow reiteration which I am not entirely comfortable with, I would like to see it more supported or rounded sense-wize.
I don't hate this. Good work.