ordinaryriches

and when you tire of the dust when you tire of the library when at last you touch the dogeared page, you will still sight me at the helm - scattering vowels like bait on the waves a fleck on the radar. you will wave from the shore, probably - nudging ochre sand, the Atlantic a finger on her spine. but when you tire of the sun when you tire of the sea when at last you settle on your shelf, think of me in your old jacket and of the plate that always began this book belongs to