On the Baltic
The horses of the sea are angry.
They shake their white manes
and paw the shore.
The splash of their breaths
is the wash of my blood;
through the tides of my heart
they would carry me down
to the dark meadows they call home
and there have me build
my house out of time,
to keep them company;
and in the dawns of their own time
offer them, one by one,
til they are gone,
the bright apples of my soul.
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