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If you knew the thunder that shook across the water—pink
then peach then dulled and washed with blue—was the sound
from a nearby weapons testing facility, what difference would it make
during that trembling when, after a day driving down the coast, cocktails
at the end of the dock, someone mentions an ex-husband out of the hospital,
whose drift began years ago on this river or inlet or whatever you call a slow,
shallow body that finally holds nothing but sky. Maybe you’d think surrender,
or worse, find that shape fillable: desire, another-tide-closer heartbreak.
Now it’s night, and you’re certain all bodies are meant for land. Capsized shell,
blasted holes through the branches, lighter there, now dark, you’re flooding
every shape; the only sound is thunder.