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This poem is taken from PN Review 269, Volume 49 Number 3, January - February 2023.

Immram Philip Armstrong
So we were entrepreneurial,
        innovative and arrhythmic as hell,
            that morning we set sail.

The waves shone like bitcoin and the sun
        was golden wool. We left behind the freighters
            where they lay against the docks,  

dead as roaches on a windowsill,
        and cruised clean through a sea of glass
            towards our glossier selves.

In our wake the gannets plunged and rose,
        delivering sprats and squid into
            an airy afterlife.

Skylarking as we crossed the line, we gammed
        with Marryat flags, translated our gibes
            into numbered ciphers.

As we approached Magnetic Key
...


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