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The Berkeley Pier A dancer dips and holds. The sun lights on her hand, a yellow finch, and on the reel of her man's fishing pole. Their child has caught a crab small and brown as his father's hand. Near sundown, a mile out the bay, the beak of a boat opens its wake. Now a gull lifts and balances like a thought I had in childhood. Alone, in Idaho, my shadow played guitar across a photo of San Francisco taped to the wall. Colossal, it soared from Buena Vista Park through Haight Ashbury, a cathedral, and the forest of the Presidio. And a cowboy song my father murmured twenty years earlier surfaced that night. He kept clearing his throat to make room in the darkness around my bed. What I thought was: men are more afraid than women. A bolt of water unravels and winds around the pilings. What I thought was: something lucent and airborne, music, the wind feathering my hair at pier's end, might hold us aloft this night. JOHN ADDIEGO* 100VOL 34. NO 2 (SPRING 1980) ...

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