Sunday, May 2, 2010

Coldhome, Fishhome

I thought the dark cold waters looked dangerous enough to freeze in,
a blue deep out of night and no better illuminated,
death under cover of water as certain as death under cover of darkness.
But there atop the churn of waves: white sails float aloft,
the only whitecap to be called savior.
As the day fades, day grades in paling shades,
I'm brought back to warmth and the world.
Looking back from exhausted shoreside waterlog
on the sawtooth-hazard rows of sunsoaked waves,
I think: how beautiful a place to make my watery grave,
lifeless home away from home and shore and breath and shame.

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