Sunday, October 27, 2013



What was surfacing was as salt-laden as our horizon.
Briny vomit, announcing itself, just as she
[a greater find than Columbus ever managed]
was doing the same.

If I lean a bit, if I tilt with the ship's next wave-fall, 

I can do this. She turned toward me, as everything
but my actual pancreas hit the waves below --
-- frothy-mouthed.

There was something brazen about her acceptance
of such a spectacle. She merely looked into my eyes.
I felt the same about the scallops this evening. Not right at all.
My entrails, sea-washed against the hull -- agreed.

-- © Ciprianowords, Inc. 2013 --

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