Brin Stevens of Merrimac
April 26, 2007 03:40 pm
—
Winter's ocean is an unctuous hunger,
bulging tri-colored waves.
Wounded wind-whipped brothers,
tugging land's crenellated graves.
Empty shells gyred to a pinpoint,
sands somersaulting over.
Death is ordinary and fossilized,
like the legs of a petite plover.
The language of the sea is laughter,
a great unified mass escorting echoes.
A loose line clinking on a skiff,
and a distant war in the throes.
Grays molting under infinite blues,
are hardened shores and cold seas.
Shades of independence that do so well,
to interrupt another season's vast possibilities.
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