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bawling in ancient tongues


The journey is perilous my friend, and often hostage

to the immortality of unfinished lives. Our craft built

of our elder’s bones. Ark ribbed. Sailing towards

a retreating horizon in an attempt to touch tomorrow.


A vision of familiar spirits surfaces before my bow

and I imagine a minyan of sea lions blessing my voyage

in Sephardic sealtalk. Their heads covered by skullcaps

of kelp and embroidered in brine.


A cartography of ruby starfish charts the way. My course 

beyond sight. Beyond reason and heft. The grey flame

of storm surge rises in the spindrift. Lashed to the mast,

I seek the lilt in the mutiny of song. Listening

for the tune to emerge salt tinged

and bawling in ancient tongues.

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