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There is a neighbor   drying the dishes in a wire rack

each plate filed under another prong.  Open. Filled. Open. Vacancy.

In the next apartment, a pile of shells.   The spirals exercised

under the pressures of sand returns  the hollow to a net of light. Above,

each tarred shingle provides  an understanding.

Starlings drag their bodies  through the sky and back again.

Scatter then fall, collect like blood  on the back of a razor

thin telephone wire.  Jars and empty brown bottles

flood the space below the kitchen table.   Within this,

concealed the idea of drowning.  Kiss the sea. We’ve created a body

of permanent ice.  In another room, shards

of apples fill a metal bowl.  Water is water because we can drink it.