The Raft

 

We who wonít know

who rowed-in

on a corpse,

 

never having cried.

Past frozen grief

synapsed between gasps.

 

We who wonít know

who mustnít sleep, dogged

by a dawn too long keeping

 

from black day a blacker shore.

The say of it

dying in its mouth.

 

To each no safe me thereó

who so ceaselessly thereó

crawl cowed heavenward, sparing no one.

 

To all who slain lay untouched, openó

the same vain dream I had

the last time I awoke.


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Jim Storm was born in Corpus Christi, TX in 1950. He's done a bunch of stuff, none of which left him the same. Not dead yet. He currently lives in New York City with an illiterate cat. Goes by the name of Inky.