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Joe Nasta


We watched the boy sailing on soundwaves

        every other day in summer months.

His father’s beard and sinews leathered

         & hemp lines murmured wind-ballads.


Our faces formed in gusts of sea scent. Saltsongs

        subtly knocking on his hull, we sang.

Atlantic sunray’s golden shine pierced his fish

        musk folds of air and flesh.


Setting fuchsia stretched as he could feel

        his thirst laid keel with yearning spite.

His nostrils, crystal sting.

        Neptune, unrelenting.


                                             We, the sirens, laughed.

Joe Nasta is the head curator of Stone Pacific Zine. Ze writes love poems in Seattle.

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