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By Annette Basalyga I am the guest here for the fireworks. After clams and steaks after gin after the mistakes of too much sun and small talk this local annual display. On blankets and beach chairs we look across the bay waiting to be amused to close the day with something definite. The police boats cruise. The flares go up opening the sky to speculation. Did that one fall inland? I wonder how much all this costs. The loudest yet goes off. A child screams you're dead you're dead. Everyone laughs. My dear something out there is measuring me. It's round and colorless it orbits like the possibility of loss. I scare myself with it. I want you here where nobody talks about the war where nobody suggests what risks and patterns we vacation from. I like the shapes that can't be guessed or second-guessed until they've run their course. Under such skies closing on steady natural stars we are friends who know the short cuts back to rented places and novels that we wouldn't read at home. |
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Document last modified on: 04/02/2006