In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

North Island Songs The water that made the island murdered the men. You can't expect these moons to last, these fallen roses, rising gold. You can't believe in pure decor or easy virtue. People are dying for good. He wants other women, those who never leave well enough alone. He's well enough. At a distance I gather what is going on. The dark that fills the deep is the song they hear in hulls. If I pine and croon I am no woman in my hooked heart, if I stand for lying, maybe I can take a shine and still keep cool. In its own element that tough old bird the gull hauls across the last-chance bars and flashy waterfront its evening seine of wail. The dance turns out to be a woodfire, fellows from the factory and mill, a cop in the doorway looking nowhere, and a kid to stamp our hands. The band is bored by the third song and the man I'd like to like is drunk in a swarming corner, so I plunge out the storm door toward the cars and there 139 are stars, all out. Orion perfectly speared by a pine. The moon exactly sharpened by a shade of meaning. I can think now cold and clear, imagine why the inland people call some kinds of water kill. 140 ...

Share