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Standing Athwart

The storm descended down the Straights,
it was Lorenzo fixing sails at the backstay,
me gangway, the bargermast'r Jim Bates,
working ropes, on mainsail aft and forestay.

Northern winds barked like dogs, the gust,
lifted the batten, boat tilted off to port bow,
lowered the cent'rboard and hull, to thrust
like a curse of Demons, on deathly draw.

I lost Jim Bates, suddenly as he unreeved,
went off; sea waves thrushed to sternway,
Lorenzo fought at the top-gallant, bereaved,
and Angelo Corto was holding timenoguy.

The steersman conned fine; me on th' ganwale,
to lower the spreader, even at a gust blow,
we had the mainsail torn, and guff-topsail,
to guide wind's force to the jib bendin' slow.

I saw them; It was abeam to starboard, dark,
heard eerie spells callin' Lorenzo off board,
blab out in void, on deathly mode to torque,
transfixed will, and I yelled, my voice barred;

Corto slowly dissolved, in dispirited lament,
strong manly skills, toughened on bearings,
collapsed, the steersman left the rope's extent,
as both followed the undefined ode pitching.

Alone I was, in an enchanted role to depart,
recalling a voice of melody, coastal Pacific,
to castigate destiny, top-standing athwart,
and it was that emptiness in heart, somnific.

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