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Poem of the Ship

The ship straddles the brisk white sea, shifting its weight
to the rhythms of the ultraviolet. It surges through the smelter
reef, seeking the peaceful morningsides of the long abandoned LodestoneHills, the coral coppice in the outer night.

Garroted whispers lay down a trance chord, a beveled canister of
wild jibbet berries, but the ship can no longer solve the long-lashed
mysteries upon a rock garden of winter trestles. Grenadine forest
minstrels open their graceful nursery flowers and sing dolefully
and yet the ship travels on, pained but unerring in its solemn course toward the distant shore.

A five-year wrench floats thickly through the winter plankton. Polyglot
lemon rinds twist their heads and uncork their hibernated Adams’ apples,
leaving an eddied swarm to stray behind.

The ship is undaunted. But can its silver luster remain untarnished, can its golden hull serve the sands of man, can its steady motion filter the barnacles of weariness
as it steams on to a distant port that may have moved away centuries ago?
What faith propels its wretched rudders through the salt wastes and
corrugated utter havens? The welder on the kale sink has an
idea. But he can only laugh and swallow his carbon flanks, a grotesque
parable on the pancake trail of Easter gone.