Blue and white waves to the spot, dull crimson sky.
The rest of my body has washed out to sea,
Smoothed timbers sleep — stretched along the sandy floor.
And I have known the sea, the porcelain calm, the pivot of storms.
The wind rubbing its back on my sails — the combing of
Salt across my decks, lingering fog crawling down the sky wall.
I grow old, I grow old — waves lapping obsessively.
And was it all worth while, to have seen the sunsets, the
Dooryards of dawn, the chambers of night?
My heart shuts, rusted nails and rotted wood measured into
The brine — ghosts of voices drowning, down, down
To the bottom; my last breath flickers in fathoms black.
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