By Scott Malby

In this blustering,
Village of rain
Swept streets,
Comes ocean, fog,
Sensations, belief,
Filling the night
With truths sharp
In this dark town
Of stammering waters,
Night squalls sweep
In from the sea
Burning with the sweat
Of secret discoveries.
O night
Of fantastic fevers,
Of the body
In rebellion,
The momentary truth
Of its’ nature,
We are pilgrims,
In a night of curvatures,
Illusions, despair.
Our own undoing drives us
Into a time
Of unraveling moods
And mysteries.
A time
Of secret confusions,
Of the confessions
Of song
Where there is no excuse
For beauty,
No definition of love,
No hour, second, minute,
More real
Then the one in hand;
That supple,
Flying undulation
Passing till it is gone.


I live and write along the Oregon coast.

Voyager was originally published at


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