That boat you see, tourist in this land of travellers, 
claims it once brought clay urns to Pithacusæ,  
to store wine and grain, and sometimes babies, stillborn, 
slipped into those cold second wombs by silent husbands… 

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Like trees diseased in spring that heal
and bud again before autumn…

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        Beneath
lizard bellies of planes… 

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I might have met you there, windows for our back-drop,
a blood-orange sun, a burning sea, and me…

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Tap, tap, tapping 
I wait
between bed and chair…

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