Unable to remember how he came to be swimming,
he thrashed against the blue. Fainter than
cloud-locked stars, a line from him is drawn
to a land beyond all horizons.
He pulls at the thread-thin band of gold that guides him,
hard, desperate, feeling the salt of the sea
and the ice of the air burning in his hands.
In madness he swims further into the channel,
dragging all those in his life on a net on his heels.
He stops between continents, water treaded,
fingering the broken strand of hope,
never to ring the world like Jormangund of old.
For long moments he exhales and sinks low,
falling into ice when snow is in the air.
The temptation is overcome and he returns to the beach.
One should never be more trouble than they're worth.
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