Wikipedia Poem, No. 347


“The lobsters in the pot are screaming / Inside the reddening roar. / Your aproned ghost keeps boiling more, keeps boiling more, / And turns to serve the gore.” Frederick Seidel


the weather

the hull of the ship

a nautical order
keeps weather
a distant blip

apart aloof a gage
of windy thrusts
keeps the quartered slip

quartered further against
the gage of rain
from gagging grip

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