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Sea Horses By Taylor Graham Of that month alone on the island he says nothing. Not the swamped boat or the floating plank, not the sky bereft of planes. But late at night you can sometimes hear his oboe like the plaint of a ship's horn or the breath of a solitary walker in a trench-coat on the docks, or the everlasting breeze that pipes through jack-straw limbs and trunks uprooted along the tsunami line. Of that island he says nothing but "sea horses." As if they could bear him away. © Copyright 2004, Taylor Graham, All Rights Reserved |
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Document last modified on: 01/06/2007