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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
© Copyright 1997, 2019, The Fairfield Review Inc., All Rights Reserved.
Document last modified on: 01/06/2007