by Gideon Burton
Below the surface I can breath the salt
That's seasoned coral banquet tables, shores
Of blank oblivion, that's salved the halt
And wounded joints of sailors. Ragged floors,
Crustacheon orchestras, have sewn the wind
Of arctic memory in tightened seams
No code can break, however many sinned
To taste the water of those fathom dreams.
No shipwreck's timbers snag the hollow course
Of oily time, dividing flesh from bone
And sandy grain from crags of lava coarse
And proud. Not even this, the moon, alone,
Aloof, with all her ripping tides and pull
Can wash one minute's breeze, one breath, less full.
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