Overboard
Diane G. martin
“Here lies one whose name was writ in water.”
John Keats
An umber moon, a crescent at the moment,
is in the ascent, though it is filling out,
penumbra hiding, biding its time,
vaguely eclipsed against a blackened backdrop,
hovering above a choppy sea, hung
over not too distant hills, it gives scant,
mute illumination. The gulet
doesn’t navigate by it, nor partiers
at bars on shore. Oblivious, blind
fishermen haul up what’s left from murky
waters—hardy squid, sardines, occasional
bodies lost in perilous flight. May
they come ashore, or do they still need visas?
Maybe institute a catch and then release
scheme? Bottom feeders yet are premium,
great delicacies for the swank elite.
September 21, 2015
Šibenik, Croatia
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