Old man, you surface seldom.Then you come in with the tide's comingWhen seas wash cold, foam-Capped: white hair, white beard, far-flung,A dragnet, rising, falling, as wavesCrest and trough. Miles longExtend the radial sheavesOf your spread hair, in which wrinkling skeinsKnotted, caught, survivesThe old myth of orginsUnimaginable. You float nearAs kneeled ice-mountainsOf the north, to be steered
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