High Seas You are timber and I am inside you and we are out on the high seas, riding foam-saddled crests of waves so tall they disappear us into clouds. We reach the pinnacle of a range of scaled peaks and I surf the top notes like a barrelchested opera singer. Your hull’s about to bust a gut – ribs straining under pressure; oak carvelplanks soaked inside and out. At your stern a riderless sea horse tumbles. John D. Kelly
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