I was flipping through my journal today and came across most of this poem. It was apparently inspired by an article I read about Winslow Homer's studio in Maine, but I'm not sure that I really get the connection now. Anyways, it feels a bit unfinished but I think it has some promise.
a comfortable man
There is he
a comfortable man in the woodwork
next to bright elegant names
ensconced among the whorled, rough-hewn signs.
He leaves us just the cliff
and the wind and the rain and the wet earth
to throw over our shoulders
when the skies get white and lonely.
He looks away to the northeast of low stars.
he no longer relaxes in hives
amongst the tea leaves
whispering
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