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NIGHT
WALKS
Not
sixteen, I swam the streets
half
searching for you, yet to be named.
In
drowned windows saw—what?
Siren
wives and door rudders?
White
hope, wrecked encrustations?
Where
corners elided I chose
up-current,
streetlamps
straining their hawsers.
In
shop doorways saw you reflected,
and
mannequins, fathomless angles.
From
the docks, above dark gantries,
the
moon tugged, a different element.
On
the way back, down Lake Road,
an
abattoir smell, but not sinister.
Home.
Dried my face at the sink.
Alan
Marshfield
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