Eight Bells

by Len Krisak (November 2012)

               
                              

Mere metal cannot win out, but it tries.

All able-bodied hands, subdued to dyes

To polish porthole, clock, and binnacle.

To gild the ship with all it will be sans.

Wind whips the sheets and shrouds. Drink deep the liquor

Be glad they gleam. Be glad the wind once blew.

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