The Wind and What It Wheels

by Tucker Lieberman

A thousand mini-flags fly underwater,
isolationist at their core.
All mouth, you barnacles,
eating the tide, salt tongues wagging
divided selves,
shutting your doors to keep out the wind.
Away whip the sandcastles—
the beach scatters, reforms.
Someone is picking you up,
trying to turn you around,
but you’re barnacled under this boat.
Lines in the sky crosshatch
misbegotten glyphs.
They are seagulls,
they are everywhere
intermittently.
Here comes the tide,
here comes the wind and what it wheels.
There is no great seal,
the heavens never shut,
and the deep—come out,
it calls,
squidlike, serrated,
varnished with wind-rush and water,
wherever you are, come in.

 

___

Artist: Taudalpoi

Tucker Lieberman’s poems are in Across & Through, Defenestration, Déraciné, Fruit Tree, Esthetic Apostle, Neologism, Oddball, Prometheus Dreaming, and Rockvale Review. He lives in Bogotá, Colombia.

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