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Show November Poem/2 We walked here often, sliding our toes under the sand's surface, watching our feet move like long white shovels. Now along the wharf the piers loom like tarantulas, their legs heavy with the sea's ganglia. In your absence you have pulled off the last rind, ripped it off in one whole piece and left me here. Out there the silver ships bob like slow corks. The sea is very tired. All night it has thrust its long veined arm curling it Jcward the shore possibly to grab at something outside itself, something with delicacy and swiftness, something that moves with a fluttering grace. I am tired too. And if I could only curl myself up, I would slide endlessly down my own milk-soft throat, falling that same perpendicular tunnel that Alice fell, down the long esophagus with rickets, down down along the small bones of my throat more brittle than the legs of a bird. |