Thursday, March 21, 2013

Upon reading Whitman again

It is the sea that shudders under me as I sail
Spreading canvas across this vast blue bed
Where the world lays flat before me
And waits for me to dive in

The seaweed weaves through sultry waves
Like fine strands of hair
I ache to run my fingers through
Or press my face against

The scent of the sea embraces me
With a sailor’s lust,
Always longed for, but never satisfied,
No matter how many ports of call
I dip my oars into to stir smooth water
Into a wondrous white froth
This saltine broth overflowing each cup
Glistening on its lip

And this sea always haunts me
No matter how far ashore I carry my oar
The sirens’ song perpetually luring me
Back to what I lack, pulsating in me,
Stirring up old passions for what has passed,
For the seat to wake me, shake me
And make me cling to slipping decks
From which I must eventually,
Regretfully plummet, taking my final plunge,
Letting this sea, this warmed water
Flush with froth and broth and seaweed
Consume me once more

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