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Latitudes Unseen

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At high tide on the shoals
with a scent of cinnamon
from the snifter of your lips

as your hands weather night
in midnight’s cognac chowder
from sea cliffs of your mind

soaring gulls of Appledore
the way you drink me
where barnacles whisper

the moon’s ancient code
in brine-stung syllables
charting latitudes unseen

in the deep’s cathedral
at high tide on the shoals
with a scent of cinnamon

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