Short Story

A man like that taking to the firmament, the little white houses, a round, an Ocean.

You shall not swim in.

Kids indefatigably peppering the fence so now look. A broken gypsy fence, second-hand shoes, towels, white shirts of everyone in passing.

No there is no insider. There is this wide and angling remark about how things are.

Gull droppings, the lost ball, dead crabs. Shadows slip down the deck and again against the auburn sunset. Him with the offal all, outlined like a criminal.

Should I have talked to him now. That the time is.

Where the mothers of the sea could see.
Come down and drop their soft breasts on the bay.

Touching the sweat of his face to say We are these mothers of the fish, all fish, seahorses. Of many things. Of bright silver edges pushing in in in in in in in in.

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