On the Ferry from Martha’s Vineyard
There is a cool fire, one that is inviting to touch with a half-promise it will not burn you. I’ve seen it in the eyes of kindness once or twice. But I saw it or something like it too when I rode the ferry from Martha’s Vineyard back to Massachusetts after a busy day galumphing and happy when the sun was lowering. Suddenly the sea turned into a horizontal blaze and I into a child on a merry-go-round wanting to clasp the brass ring. At least that is how the ripples of the sea attracted me with their powers of enchantment at about 6:40 just as the day was thinking about turning again into...
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Midst purgatory’s weedfields sprouts one clover. On blinded shelves, between the pulp and pap, a dashed and stashed encryption offers sight as fortitude is found in looking over the life of Job, the context of mishap. And even the most sweat-sopped marish night about to drown you in its sea of horror dissolves in dawn: The dark defines the light. So if I’m looking at a fun-house mirror or through a curved perverted looking glass to spot a glimmer through a pane of terror of what you say shall never come to pass, it could be that you aren’t looking right. The dark of sunspots, after...
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