by Marc Vincenz

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This is the place
you wanted to grow ancient
out beyond the lighthouse
where the cold is
but another shade of warm
and chill is something shared
and stoked with coal.

Coal burns long and slow
because it was once trees,
and truly old trees are diamonds,
all the oxygen of primal day
compressed into a cold glimmering
bullet of light.

When we share a bottle
of your home made wine
you hum a sailor’s tune
as if to lure mariners
behind the breaking waves
of stillness, comfort
and old, old bones.

There’s nothing more divine
than you, old woman,
you and the smell of the sea.

Marc Vincenz was born in Hong Kong, but has lived in England, the US, Spain, Switzerland, and worked for over ten years in China. His first novel, Animal Soul, is forthcoming by Shanghai Wen Hui in Mandarin. Currently based out of Iceland, he writes a bi-weekly column on the occult for the Reykjavik Grapevine, Iceland’s English-language newspaper. His recent work has appeared, or is forthcoming in various journals and magazines including Prick of the Spindle, Danse Macabre , and FRiGG .

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