I don't know what to make of it,
strands of an errant dream,
when hyacinths sought rebellion,
and a mechanic plied uncertainly
across an eastern sea.
It lies there out of reach,
the tail end of a tale,
of vistas far and unknown,
of stories almost told,
of gulls that fly stationary,
caught in an offshore breeze,
of small boats launched into exile
by hapless navigators,
from a...
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