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The water, today, tiled in blue
like a new roof just itching
to glitter.
Loneliness heckles the edges, redundant,
but inscrutable with clouds thick as doors,
swept so far
from their moorings.
Gulls chorus in their everyday language of
crass yowls.
Back bent to his oars, he too, is out of sight,
beyond those pale bluffs
with their shoulders turned inward.
He can’t hear the waves crash against them
like bottle glass.
Year upon year, speculations arise and diminish
like the tides.
He’s a man underwater, still dreaming of specifics
like the lemon-oil moon
of his childhood.
These rooms he’s left behind do not hint
of the intimate or any moments
just invented.
They are singular and salt-rimmed
with lonely patinas.
A solid transparency that’s seemingly
benign.
How long has he been rowing away
through this half-light,
beyond invisible currents.
There’s no blood in the water
but something’s about to happen.
Is it late enough?
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