Nothing
Under a blue-grey
evening sky the black hull
that we have spent
five days loading reverses
out into the
harbour basin, heels past the grain silo,
and rights itself in
the sailing channel with a green light
on the starboard
side. Nothing
the snowflakes say
that melt on the
back of my warm hand. Nothing
the winter wind
says in the empty harbour street,
and I feel the
blood pounding
its way throught
the body in its closed circuit.
And the snow
that unobtrusively
knocks and says nothing.
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