the storm
the storm ate the sea
dribbling from a spittled mouth that
slid in abandon across a marbled milky floor
sinking beyond the sand into the meadow of a trench
so deep-dark that neither the moon nor the sun have
ever seen the vents of hell it bore
so deep that sorrow has been hollowed out
into the gritty hallows in a hag stone’s eye
bereft of the tide’s tears that might have rimed with
salt’s historiography written upon the sands of time
running out now upon the lonely tides of thought
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