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The Old Sailor the gutter dogs are shivering their mottled cur bones home on the cobble of the misted wharf the brine the rope the stone the iron kettle shrieks aside my gin besotted head steam obscures the razor callused hands, they shave the dead my lydia forgets me for the sea has wed her now far beneath her willow pale and jasmine scented vow i lay down with the mongrels they will chew my rotting bones and spit me in the crumbling wharf the brine the rope the stone |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Thomas H. Smihula On Date: 2006-01-04 11:20:13
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
A Tribute brought me here to read his work once again. Depth is present is this last piece.