Scars and wrongs adhere to me like so many barnacles:
hard and immovable, their life sustained
by the waters of a consciousness that cannot be
without these parasitic friends.
To be stripped back down to my wooden hull!
For my shipwrecked fixtures to be raised and restored!
That my ironwork, corroded by exposure to
the elements, be renewed!
These invocations are vibrations of being;
life's thirst to be unspoilt and free.
But the barnacled self can only follow,
and colonise each novelty.
He stands twixt verge and brink,
Stood rigid, head inclined;
A homely place, a native breeze
is this: a warm, nostalgic fear.
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