Moorings An ancient tub, long lost to shoaling grounds, nestles in the ooze by a peeling barge, ropes slack to the task of tethering them to an indifferent jetty. Each turn of the tide floats the possibility of tugging at knots, splintering restraint, waking the devil in the engine room and sailing away, prow-high, sea-skimmed, poles apart, adrift on oceans of old freedoms far from … Continue reading Three poems by Stephen Elves