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July 2, 2015

Sleep when the tide sleeps
that’s what the gulls do
the mollusks under sand
the lights go out in houses
cliffs remain dark until morning.

Take the dreamless sleep of churches
of City Halls that reverberate
like the Mosque on a Friday
that eternal sleep of concrete
no morning allowed, as in cities
at war where it is always
night until the bloom of flares.

The ripple-effect of Fukashima
has taken out the street lights
my wi-fi, the café closes early
no TV, no light to read by.

In the morning, in addition to the stink
of the late night words of those left up
there will be dead fish scattered on
Front St. the promise of Saints, or clams.


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