Robert Crisp
In Terms of Fighting and Protest
Can my guts expect anything solid
from me in terms of standing up to
squids who, by some insane stroke
of horror, become tentacled dictators
of the deep and unknowing green sea?
No more than a swallow may outwit
the wind, said the wiry fortune teller
on her wheezing deathbed, offering
her final augury for a sip of my clean
water and a promise to bury her on land.
Outfitted with my unstable nerves, I dove
into a watery grave and made my peace.
Robert Crisp currently hides out in Savannah, GA, where he teaches English. He writes poetry as often as he can. Learn more at www.writingforghosts.com
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