• Vol. 04
  • Chapter 03
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Nameless, adrift,
A plastic jelly fish,
I take my tidal chances. Close to France,
In a ship’s wake,
I dance some empty dance –
And chance to catch the current shape of an old debate,

Concerning those
Who lose all there is to lose,
If not at home, then deep in the desperate sea.
If not behind the wire,
Then lost expensively,
Far from home and border, in dubious boats for hire.

A strange matter
To warp me, treading water . . .
But then: I touch upon that congregated
Welter where I
Belong. Swell populated,
A nation needing neither when nor why,

Manmade, tide-shaped,
Without purpose or end-date:
Asylum welcomes me into its sightless empire.
Surely those who flee
In kindly boats for hire
Likewise are welcomed by those with eyes to see?