12 July 2014


pushing off from the shore
we still saw
copper-breasted birds wresting
worms from the earth

stopping her ears from the
siren call snaking through
grey mists edging the
waters, a fluid fog
wreathing the way

unplotted, our navigator
gone missing at the last port,
color-coded maps with veins
of red, indigo, green, orange,
mustard-yellow, harvest
gold, bordered by blue,
shoved under your oxter

the salt spray so
refreshing, while
tapestries are woven and unwoven,
you sing stories
of the long way home, the
dog-eared tickets, her
last and best hopes
dashed upon the rocks

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