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By Annette Basalyga
I am the guest here for the fireworks.
After clams and steaks after gin
after the mistakes of too much sun and small talk
this local annual display.
On blankets and beach chairs we look across the bay
waiting to be amused
to close the day with something definite.
The police boats cruise.
The flares go up opening the sky to speculation.
Did that one fall inland?
I wonder how much all this costs.
The loudest yet goes off. A child screams
you're dead you're dead. Everyone laughs.
My dear something out there is measuring me.
It's round and colorless it orbits
like the possibility of loss.
I scare myself with it. I want you here
where nobody talks about the war
where nobody suggests what risks and patterns
we vacation from. I like the shapes
that can't be guessed or second-guessed
until they've run their course.
Under such skies closing
on steady natural stars
we are friends who know
the short cuts back to rented places
and novels that we wouldn't read at home.
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Document last modified on: 04/02/2006