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by Mike Florian

The southeast wind is blowing a hundred and
The albatross glides easily over its home,
Wingtips barely kissing the ocean.

The barometer falls to unbelievable depths.
The green sea rises ahead of you,
And you pray that the bow comes up yet one more time.

You’ve held your pee for six hours and there’s no more strength.
When the tide changes after the slack, the wind stops,
And with the hot stillness the albatross disappears.

Only the seagulls remain skimming the surface,
Searching for a ball of feed.

Copyright © 2012 by Mike Florian

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