Greg Easley Poet I do not know?

Starboard's East

this sea
has cast its
wildest fury
for many months
relentless

aweigh
and through
the straights
into the far
and open

with wearied
sails upon
an infernal vessel
flailing madly
in the gust

but the stern
cuts the billow
aft for dreams
of home in a
quiet harbor

where anchors
will lay down
in the sand
as they have
often longed

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