Bluff

The poor wind-blown trees: rich in nutrients,
at least, but sea-blasted, crooked to the
roots, laying down their arms in deference
to a much superior fighting force,
hanging their leafy heads in shame that they
cannot withstand this grand oceanic
battering ram, a united front come
up from the air’s equivalent of an
icy hell——blacker than the deep-pressured
and starless night of the sightless swimmers,
their taste rudely breezed into the bark——their
horror coming more in the vanity
of not knowing how they live when we see
trees upright each day that never complain.

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