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Perfectly timed for the sun,

a raw dial of wood soaks

in the shadow of an arm

sprung from a hand steering

ink from water and

water from a well

full of secret fish.


These stories are not from a sailor’s tale

or flowers from the Arabian sea


but flow from the cuts

of passing people lost

in words that no longer heal.


They come here to slot

bright coins between waves

then dive beneath swells

to save a last rusting wish


that is really old hope

eroding its anchor


to set sail,

to marinate.

* First published in Makarelle magazine, 2022

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