SHIPS IN BOTTLES (for Kirsten Luckins)

I’ll be carrying butter and cornflakes

home from the NISA, usually, or, say

scanning my desk for a bill with my address,

when it hits.

The spray soaks my hair

I find my sea legs. Grab a mast and climb

to the crow’s nest, hold on with one hand,

catch the storm with the other arm, giving

as good as I get to the thunder, everyone

on deck matchsticks.

It ends quicker

and quicker these days, but I am

deft with the pincers and the model

I am working on is almost finished.


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