Who am I to undertake the sea,

and who to underwrite its work
of mystery and augmenting?

Who can know the sadness of twenty
whales that beached themselves,
or the single arrow that threaded

through their souls and stitched them
just a few hundred paces from where
the water unrolled its thinnest coverlet?

 

In response to Via Negativa: When the wind died.

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