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The Harbor at Nevermind, 1915
The dawn is early. It was brought in
by four fishing boats that rowed back
on a calm sea with no catch at all.
The morning is angry. The little boats,
empty now, knock knock against the pier.
A wedge of burned coffee drives down
from the village, wakening slowly, one
house at a time where the fishermen
have gone back to bed nursing their rage.
If that were not my father standing
alone between two huge graying rocks
this could all be nothing or a dream.
If this were not the end of a year
at war, I could turn from the page
and go about my morning calmly
and you could amble to the window
seventy-eight years from here and gaze
into a cloudless sky for a sign.
Suddenly you take my hand and we
peer into the haze of our century
hoping to find an answer somewhere
in the great mushroom of imagery.
We find instead the rain driving down
on the ruined harbor, the houses closed,
the sea giving away less than it knows.
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