It is odd that this poem offers well oiled feathers. I of course mean the oil that comes from the glands that the waterfowl use to preen and waterproof their feathers. I do not mean the plumes of ancient hydrocarbons found floating in the ocean after an accident releases them. I do not mean the reservior under pressure in old rocks. I do not mean the oil in old rocks as they are turned under to cook and turn huge deposits of biomass into hydrocarbon soup and sludge where once the biosphere lived. I do not mean that kind of oil at all.
A Singular Eider
Floating in twilight,
well oiled feathers hold me up
though my heart still sinks.
Are there words to say?
A solitary ocean
replies, gives solace.
June 7, 2009 11:24 AM
Hurry
6 days ago
Beautiful and sad. beautiful and sad.
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erin
Thank you, sweetheart.
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