Away from the cruel magnification of a shaving mirror, I clean up well. I am content with orange teeth and salty skin, with having borrowed my beauty
from the ocean. See my kelpy eyes, the pearl on my tongue? Flatter me, flatterer! I still care about dignity, like a blindfolded duke being led to the gallows. It’s hard not to smile
What realms of gold did they travel, these old field glasses? Her last pair, focused beyond the tame sea-stacks of glass and bottle, they’d have caught–– from her Boston Harbor condo–– birds in maneuvers, breaches of whales.
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