Men Hurry to Shore for Good Reason

The sea swallows whole
all that boasts of heft and mass,
slows the arc of a brute fist
till it becomes the leisurely
sweep of a ballerina’s arm –

or adds force to the weak,
flinging a stray oak sprig
hard enough to redden a cheek.

To stay requires that one conform
to the fluid cage of the whale,
submit to ebb and flow, gale and lee

that buffet and shelter the brig
by turns. Some do. Most demur,
preferring the sound and solid shore.

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