I read more poems than I write. I love the art of words and I'm tangled up in the reasons I'm alive. I have a wide variety of interests and have hefty aspirations as a writer. I'm not a great poet but I'm working to be.
1942 And the Pacific is mild and forever, reaching with azure volition. On deck: sailors mull in requisite tedium, some staring into the crease of water and sky, dangling bare feet from iron heights each given to his brand of introspection and by his own time. O, to weather his coming-to-terms inside the lone, blue hour, where are visioned variations of his wounding— were that he would select one for his own, and, in theory alone, rebuild himself back to safety, return to this bright and dreadful setting; he could float the sea entire and sense on free skin its frigid exhalations, as for the first time, and never again. Seabirds call, shot through with sunbeams. Purer forms of light play on his hands and bare shoulders—he is alive, content here for a time, but lo, he can not ever return; and so steals damnable, fierce, ordered into the country of a surer territory, every conception of his death consigned to a proper abandonment, buried with his stoic ceremonies here in the wide, sapphire center of all. In all his calculation he summed himself fate’s vapid, sour amounting; A rapid, terminal seduction; the mortality following the musings of boy or man— He will come to land and die of this.
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