the way ahead seeming
longer than the one
behind. We don’t mind
the wind, the choppy
waters. We’re martyrs
of the sea’s breadth. Its depth
is no threat for us who float.
When we pass we wave,
drop anchor for the night,
bump up against
each other’s hulls till light
comes, then pull up
again, and sail away.
Our mast lights signal harbor,
keep the distance at bay.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Ships Passing
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Note from the pote: I was really intrigued by Ryan's assertion that "Poets rehabilitate cliches." Seeing that this was so successful in her poem "Home to Roost," I thought I would explore a cliche of my own.
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