crop circles of eddies
kissed kindly into the
neuston by immigrant
winds bring slow,
salted currents
a star overhead in its
fixture blinks with
an admiration endemic
to the space between
the peninsular part of
New York and a
desperate stretch of
land called Connecticut
either way, dancing
plumes of lights scour
the bight's surface,
as though the entire
body were held up
by paper lanterns
anchored to the shores
a few barber shop
poles stick out of the
land like tent stakes
a ferry peels back
waves with incredible
force
a saline thought
is punctuated by
a cormorant's croak
and
more than once,
the thought of you
has brushed past my
shoulder
much like a trade wind
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