Anchorage
Bearskin and gold.
The story hangs on the word
like a rusty hulk
turns on its anchor in the tide.
The small porthole
of consciousness.
The compass needle
quivers towards the magic word-pole.
Haul in the chain,
4 shackles out.
Steady the feet on
the deck against the black wall
that towers up and
surges in over the port bow.
Shift the weight
over onto the right foot
while the lashing
spray slams at the wheelhouse window.
Steady so!
Anchorage, Antwerp, down under
and home. The word
like a threadbare ritual
for getting one’s
sea-legs, standing
almost still.
There the next second comes, foam-whipped.
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