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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

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