ARGONAUTIC POEM

The coal black of the ship’s hull—
the powder blue of the water—
the canary yellow sky;
who the hell painted this picture?
The porthole slams shut.
The lights buzz on. The shadows
resume their archaic positions.

You move towards an outer world
with an inner world close behind
so that your feet are straddling both
while your mind is left to dwell
in some interstitial crucible
of blazing indeterminacy
and ultramarine coordinates.

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Mark Terrill
Collage ©Ruth Terrill

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