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III
Evening
Burnished golden crown
Floods the bay in regal farewell.
The surf laps little sounds of reassurance,
A giant hand playful with the switch
Sprinkles the lights of the towers
Across the bay,
I sit in a silver cage
On a rocking chair in paradise,
Overhead a solitary gull
Silhouetted against the moonlit night
A ghostly bat in an eerie landscape.
Whose satanic hand
Fashioned his mold,
This lowly creature of the sea? Broken
shell, a grotesque twisted fragment,
He crawls painfully
Along the sand of a lunar shore
To his own private
Jack Mashman
1981 |
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