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The Bight

Rating: 3.0

At low tide like this how sheer the water is.
White, crumbling ribs of marl protrude and glare
and the boats are dry, the pilings dry as matches.
Absorbing, rather than being absorbed,
the water in the bight doesn't wet anything,
the color of the gas flame turned as low as possible.
One can smell it turning to gas; if one were Baudelaire
one could probably hear it turning to marimba music.
The little ocher dredge at work off the end of the dock
already plays the dry perfectly off-beat claves.

The birds are outsize. Pelicans crash
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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Morgan Michaels 11 January 2020

What a voice- utter detachment giving the least thing meaning.

1 0 Reply
Morgan Michaels 11 January 2020

a truly great poem, packed with amazement.

0 0 Reply
Peter Timmerman 24 December 2013

Note that the poem originally has a subtitle: (on my birthday) [Important! ]

3 0 Reply