Libby Hart-lI

Exile

 

 

Each time his heart stumbled

he built a boat.

 

He scoured his maps,

tethered with flag and string.

 

A slender moon and slew of stars

acted as shipmates and captain.

 

Disquiet in the bay of ruin,

scrolls of shipwrecks now collar the Black Sea.

 

His nostalgia quibbled until the curses ended.

Each trace of ghost-scent owns a broken thought.