A Short Poem


He finally sees the morrow—
when all that’s left is blindness—
when all hope’s lost for land or shore—
only squalls or deadly tempest,
or maelstrom’s eye and heady vertigo—
or lapping waters placid
on timbers rotting—
the marrow of
his only home—
a sinking raft
now adrift—
for long the ocean’s child.

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