Soothing Rotes

I woke on shores that teemed of days,
their pulchrid paths of tempest waves,
air filled with refuse that I winnowed
away. Hark the lyre and the soot rote
house that gave the spire its coat and
the waves its rinds, liquor like wine or
sweets that brine in windows of clerks
who all of their fresh-washed days spat,
like stones against shore that spoke and
swore of better times with fresher shores
and windless houses with always opened doors.

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