Thursday, December 1, 2011


Grand Island

If you were to ask
I might tell you about
the condition of the road
from the dock to the bay,
a flat ribbon twisted
into knots under
our tires, wound tight
enough to wring sweat
from half-buried
shoulders of limestone,
pent coils spun out into
sand beds that clamped and
held us like gnats in amber.
Maybe I could say something
about the clay we dug
from the seam in the
rock and smeared across the
bridge of our noses,
in green
and red bands down
our chests. I might
mention how easy it
looked from the beach
watching him clamber
up over smooth rock,
fingers reading the grain
for camber and bevel,
keeping quiet on the
matter of my own
jackknife lurch to the

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