Saturday, April 11, 2020


Lost at Sea

Trapped in this drafty house
I can feel lost at sea,
Capsized from my couch,
Another midnight mid-Atlantic tempest.
The hours are equatorial doldrums
In which I pace and ponder and nothing gets done.
There is a scurvy resurgent that even oranges can’t sate.
The mind reels and the bones too easily break.

Does the wave even see the shore?
Is it worried about what’s coming?
Or is this just me seeing a wave
From a porthole in my home,
Unfurling itself in rhythmic drift
Before it falls over in a splash of foam.

The wave is the one that swims
While I am the flailing white froth:
I should have seen the rocks before the cliffs.


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