Old Sailor
he sags,
each wrinkle a route on the map of memory,
every age spot a star
that devoured a wish.
a few silver tufts
are the only limbs he has left
to dance with storms.
his palms cup a cane
carved from a fallen tree he climbed as a boy.
his wool of ocean-blue
reminds him of a long-time-ago girl
who said the tide would lead her
as it retreated with the hem of her dress.
his mast of a spine,
cannoned with muscle, suffers tatters.
his guilty sinews congregate on warped bones.
his eyes--such foggy compasses--wander.
his leg-heavy anchors
unremember their allegiance to wind.
and yet still, the rain,
such drops! how they sojourn
across the countries of his cheeks.
and as all of us must do, they diminish,
meek of glow, at last, so it must be,
led by moonlight,
as night sinks into water.
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War is here. I sent an op-ed to a few newspapers. Aside from that, poetry.
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