whatever i catch and set free
is lost in the rippling flows of this solemn islet.
no one bears witness to this weary setting,
or mourn the loss of this pilgrim soul,
striving forwards, eventually, denied.
And bending down beside the cooing frond,
I lull myself to eternal sleep, head bedded
on a furrowed shell, ethereal nets of grey
desire murmuring on the ottoman of crowded stars,
a little sadly, not quite yielding, not quite dead.
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