Wayfarer



The salt and bluster of the Eastern board,

(undeniable and weary of travel),

slip into trees and the teething gravel

of vertebrate bridges


rutted through the sound—of charcoal ribbons

lain in-ground with studded permanence.

In the seeping weather, they score

together what is stable and what is air.


Darting droplets overbear the angled snow:

the water revels

where the tundra will not go.


Post after post after post down the rail—

under feather-wet tails and shelters unsure,

presumption learns the allure of silence,

to surrender plundered pride to incisor'd breezes.


On the shoals, a zealot freezes as the cobalt thunders by.

White-picket whispers and cosmopolis cries

grace the skirts of a terrible return.

A terrific, slow burn to taste the sea splitting its seams.

It seems one is unwelcome for it is true.


Yet a fair price for majesty unrequited:

to live as the wayfarers do.

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