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The Bones Repeat Themselves

ISSUE:  Autumn 2003

It was not the time to be thinking of spring.
The boats were at their moorings,
applauding the good wood. The tires were hung
from the timbers and did not look fatigued
to be stationed for good at the pier. The weekend rowboats
had gone out and come in. During the day,
one could see from shore the oars held up to ask
for help, and the sea churning up light.
There is a fingerprint somewhere that will matter,
a bloodstain on an oarlock, a fright that will never
surface or yell out, because it will never be time to.
Later there will be a wedding in the leaves
by the white church where the Boy Scouts box
in the basement, trying to be brave.
The owner of the fishing station watches the sea
through binoculars, fixing on the darker water
where the boats clustered to thin a school.
The days have been growing raw,
and he is willing to give the last ones five minutes
before he rips the tide apart with an inboard
and drags to the beach those who didn’t
see the end coming.


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