Today the city blocks the north wind,
Leaves the harbour nearly calm
And keeps the small boats slack-sailed.

Slow clouds hang low in the sky, turn
The surface gray and streaked—a chalkboard
Gulls drag themselves across all day

In shrill, recursive scrawls that seem
Almost legible. But there’s no more
Meaning on the water than on the wall.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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