The air is a black window of salt-fog and mist, as if the sea were snaking its long fingers up into the hill streets.
I settle down, in this lamplit room, to coax an ear, an eye.
How can I define faithful?
On my tongue the fog tastes like drowning.
There are tales to tell.
And none are true.
3 comments:
...you have me hooked.
The cadences remind me of The Seafarer (y'know, that ancient song/poem/hymn from the Anglo Saxons)--love it so much.
(I should say, the Burton Raffel translation, anyhow...)
http://tatiyana.tripod.com/seafarer.htm
Completely accidental! Just fell out of my fingers this morning . . . I wasn't even thinking of it as a poem-in-process
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