Saturday, March 7, 2009

260. FIFTEEN DAYS

FIFTEEN DAYS
Oceans and seas together contort, ropelike,
twisting knots around ample necks; things
ready for taut pressure and deep squeezes.
As if, beneath the waves for two weeks or
more, some madman's mind would coalesce
around a sea-foam'd moment of wreckage.
An arc of delight, gone sour and drowned to
some soggy death. We would only watch in
wonder as certain things transpired.
-
My peg-legged Ahab shouts back now
at everyone else: Queequeq and Starbuck,
themselves long lost, are embittered and
feeble before even starting out. The sea cries
its pity, but goes about its day. Drowning, and
death by water, are the only seemingly valid
results. Ishmael, in some biblical sense, seems
now the only fitting name to give me - and, with
these salt-sea dragged open hands, I accept
whatever comes my way.

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