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by Barrett Warner

    I hear the ship's bells,
    the metal song of halyards
    ringing against the masts.
    These are moments of oceans
    deeper than skies,
    when the smile of the horizon
    turns sad at the corners
    and the bigness of love,
    breathy voices, glimmering clouds
    of fog in the harbor,
    all scrape the oldest surfaces.

    I am the last circle of the Earth.
    Imagine the grinding stop,
    the sound of jets slamming,
    then coughing into silence.
    Would we call it music,
    an orchestra of small fears
    and would we dance?
    Three fears on the reeds,
    one long fear on the trumpet,
    quiet, insane fears on the upright bass
    and the snare, and the crashing cymbols.

    Looking at the gray moon
    her eyes reach for the silver light,
    follow it across the water.
    Mine go beyond, away from us.
    I want to know what time it is in Austria.


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