My father once showed me Where maelstroms go to die. Great big swirls and bother, Turned wrinkled and white. I asked him, "Dad, Will they be sleeping In paradise tonight?" "No son, not maelstroms, Turned wrinkled and white, They go to Pluto And die in the ice." Then he fell silent. The foam and the loam Fading into waking stars: The salt and the storms, The spray and the fire. I prayed, there, That templed shore, For old maelstroms, All wrinkled and white. Then walked back home, Sifting the thistle night Through my silk string sieve. Pouring it out... Watching its flight.

This poem written by Doug Bolden.

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