wound around the ribs I can feel.
It's down to hacksaw or the end of me.
Those rung lowest I might wiggle off.
The tie on the top right has frayed;
I've bullied it with fingernails,
scaling knives, razor blades.
Its bone is tender, but it will go.
What is this ship I draw?
What are these hulls and sails,
ballast and crew besides?
Sever my salt-beaten cords; let me
plunge into the black, make home
among the wrecked and wonderful.
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