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The Bread We Eat in Dreams

Page 70

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her son died and the narwhals

wouldn’t talk to her anymore.

Or.

The revolution came and went.

The records of those metal domes

and rusted bolts

and a boy down there in the cold

got mixed up with a hundred thousand other files

doused in kerosene

pluming up into the stars.

That’s okay.

the boy in the black says.

I don’t think the nineties

are going to be a peach either.

We do what we’re here for

and Atlantis is for other men.

Once there was a boy under the sea.

I dove down after him

when I was six, fifteen, twenty-six, thirty-two.

Down into the dark,

a small white eel in the cold muck

and into the lake of my father’s boat

I dove down and saw:

brown bass hushing by

a decade of golf balls

the tip of a harpoon

rusted over, bleeding algae

and a light like 1985

sinking away from me,

dead sons and lost wives



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