dead drunk dublin and other imaginal spaces
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k i t t e r y   p o i n t

:  c h r i s t o p h e r    l o c ke

They stand at the edge
of the bay, the tide out,
the rocks shining in their wigs
of seaweed. And everywhere,
the air thick with ruin,
the salt eating through
the jagged pier, the brightly
painted lobster shacks.
Docked, a boat rises
and falls, barnacles lesioned
to its underbelly. Even so,
the water holds less mystery
than he had hoped; he skips
a mussel across the surface.
Near him, she is dressed
like a fresh window at Macy’s:
long white gown, hat askew
with grand purpose.
She dips a toe in a pool,
clenches her teeth. He smiles
at her with the shame only
a lover could have, and undoes
his bow tie, approaching her
from behind. Buoys sing
to each other across
the distance, making her wish
she could feel that mortal.



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