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We've seen these things before;
a boat goaded into inlets,
then the slow sloped vein
during icecaps,

seized to the dregs to the lee
a bulbul blue with maps
to trinkets or
the prayed for Boolean

who walks the mathematics
of a ship-wreck,
like a wind
at the reasty heart

of the sleeping-vaults
the whetstone spun, and spun.
What we heard
that morning

among the thaw the freeze
the sea charming its drum
was the sixpence of a movement
as if a rivet loosed, then shone.

      — Aidan Tynan