An iron bell (muffled by humidity)
sounds, distant. Sailor understands
he's touched haven; not vagrant winds,
but lubber's arms, wring such solidity

from air. Sound hangs suspended there
from metal flower (pendulous too,
titanic water-lily - amid blue
depths, beneath infinity). Somewhere

nearby, Sailor Town lies nestled (rocked
beneath green hills). Metropolis to him,
where locals scramble up a worsted scrim
of news - packetfuls of letters, interlocked,

a pillowy osier cage of breathless deeds
uncounted - then counted, recounted; tested,
tasted, registered, restated... ballasted
to earth (as only iron words can be).

Landed, they may not mark the miracle
performed - unfurling suddenly, mountain
erupting from sea to sunlight - when
a young green fiddlehead (tentacle

sprung free) arises from rusted urn
fractured by wayside. Wobbly
Peg-leg canters trippingly
in hoarse euphoria; old adamant

stern planet (curdled) strands him firm.
There is a proverb in it for the wedding
banns; the word is perpetrated, steeled
with fortitude. Waltz on, brave earthworm!

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