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(for Cerys Lewis)

. . . but some books float, Prospero,
and not all words bleed black into the waves.
Let these pages be tide-turned now,
polyp-bound and clasped with kelp;
spells brine-read until philosophy wears a carapace,
magi swim, and squid-inked runes are cast.
All deeps invert; tides at last divorce the moon
and gulls race risen ships upon a self-willed swell
to give the land one last embrace.

Mat Joiner lives near Birmingham, England, where they absorb tea and second-hand books, watch foxes, and admire crumbling buildings. Their stories and poems have appeared in Not One Of UsLackingtons, Goblin Fruit, and Stone Telling. You can find them on Twitter as @damsonfox
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