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C. McAllister Williams  




        Quarter Master 



The sails cut the thing

& bled wholesale.

A set of scabbed

hands nailed to oars.

The moon a mute

knife carving the sky.

When filled with fluid,

objects will crack & swell.

There is no place

in the end for flags,

just ships & a strip

of nothing. The mast,

the world, water

& a little terror

flying through it.











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