Who’s alive to hear the cry of the whaling knife
weakened, out of place on the antique trader’s table
the slit stream edge screams a blubber cutter’s lament
lying meek in a try at refinement.
Who of all who heed the call of the sailing life
will hark the eerie wailing song
mute amidst lawn statues
of wooden ducks with carefully daubed gold bills,
stark pencil h…
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