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Sailing to the Moon Markirah Shaw
On gentle swells of liquid onyx Rocking back and forth. Lit by swarms of tiny diamonds, arrow pointing north. Awake the ghosts to catch the wind and take us far from shore. Away from smoking ruins toward the dream of something more. On high, the lonely crow-man sings across the shifting dunes of the shining city made of Tin that ‘waits us on the moon.