This fall’s

first day of loom.

Water warmer

than the air.

A thin


warmed by contact,

a lens,

bending light

over the horizon,


whatever lies beyond its limb.

Distant ships,


float mirage-like

just above the edge of the sea


crenelated by loom of far-off waves.

Headlands appear taller

then break up into

blips and blobs reflected,


top and bottom, by

bright, light sky.

Antonio Dias, 10.06.10

An excerpt from the poem, Loom.

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