A fisherman knows chance better than a city man He knows it sweeps with a nylon-netted hand planes go missing and tankers sink and carbon monoxide you can’t smell can leak Cars slip and split apart on jersey barriers and men jump to see themselves free He knows that chance hangs in the sterile dead-space between the people who wait in entryways where nothing is meant to happen but to consider what may His ship is yellowwood and he sails a salt sea Though deep waters rap the hull like men knocking underneath he knows chance better than a city man and he will evade death easily
Other poems like this one . . .
Chimera
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i want to play in the cosmic lace
i want to be the red storm
the starstuff i was before i was born . . .







I felt like I was on a boat at sea, battling a storm and fighting a fish and envying city folk...and being thankful I'm not city folk at the same time. Hehe. Awesome poem, Quinlee.
You have a strong connection to sea lore, Quinlee, tickling the corners of Victorian feel like a latter day Melville piece.