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Half price T-shirts and ice cream cones, no more tomatoes or New York Times, people out patching the roof, putting up storms, the last guests gone tomorrow.
Half price T-shirts and ice cream cones,
no more tomatoes or New York Times,
people out patching the roof, putting up
storms, the last guests gone tomorrow.
It feels so lonely when the full moon rises
over the dirt road and lights up the last
white cosmos, so lonely when smoke
from the first fires spark up to the stars
and you can hear the sea sustain
its conflict with the granite shore.
Sitting at the dock, lost on the ivory road
leading to the moon, I watch men load
the Laura B. for the day’s last run,
a steel winch hauling one more stack
of laundry bins on board. A couple kisses
on the bow, and they toss wildflowers
into the harbor, praying to return
next year. I can see them wave to me,
leaning into a moonlit notebook,
writing with the ferocity a falcon feels
when he tucks his wings and dives.