Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Threshold

From the bar at the pier’s end

they saw the moon’s pale hands

splay across the sea as if it were a piano,

phrasing waves into a nocturne.


He held his beer glass

steady on the high counter,

as a breeze blew, and her shawl tassels

fluttered against her mouth.


She’d got a raise, she told him.

He was glad, he said.

She watched the night fisherman

step into the shallows, cast his line.


City lights caught

the crescent of the bay,

completing the regretful curve

of ships leaving harbour.


Along the beach

small ordinary fires

warmed the dark.

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