Drunk staggers under the carapace of glass and metal
I watch through the stained window
as a leaf drifts and scrapes on the brick wall
I walk to the pier, leaning on the rail;
green waves become symmetrical ferns in cedar.
Across the bay wisps of white on the mountains
linger like words on the tongues of my elders.
A sea gull caws.
My cigarette faintly hisses in the water.

Earle Thompson
11 June 1993

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