Drawing of an octopus as seen from above. Golden in color


While I’m looking toward the pole,
You slump to your side of the ocean.

I’ll call out the hours,
And you can inventory the flotsam and jetsam,


I no longer care to make brine.
Perhaps I’ll write songs for whales.

As I dance a Borealis under the moon,
Near the equator nothing is happening.

Soon, I will forget these waters connect,
The stars will make me lose count.

Perhaps you will still be searching the triangle –
For evidence of us.

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