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A ghost ship near demise, a plaything to
The sea, that palliative cradle turned
To jutting shards that flash and writhe, angled
In the moonshine, her bow plunges under

Water pours off her sides like tears from her
Hull upturned, exhaling acquiescence.
A mooncalf’s memories of its mother
Subsiding whispers in a dead language

Image credit: Max Suharev