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To the Horizon


ISSUE:  Autumn 1979

Five years old, I strain up
on tiptoe, from wet shells
and mud at Rockaway.

A boat goes dark. Dissolves
into a thin, gray band.

It says if my eyes reach
hard enough, dim lines
of Paris may appear.

A life so far away
I can’t know it stares back.

Sky and ocean facing
glass to glass
against one another—

Low clouds thicken, and waves
leap off into white air.

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