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F. D. Reeve (1928– ) Night River The heavy river winds around the foot of the wharf. Gasoline ribbons like rainbow eels flutter on its brown slow-changing face. Oranges and condoms drifting under the pilings whorl through its eyes past the warehouse docks of big ships and the vacant piers where jockstrapped boys swim in the Hudson, the Charles, the Connecticut, the Platte, the great streams of national culture, the states’ pride, the navigable ways of the world. On the other bank, a drunken girl rises on to her elbow; a dog urinates on a tree; a log rolls on to the beach reserved for summer. The river has no street or number. It cannot keep faithful. Whore to the world at our feet tonight it lies asleep in the moonlight as softly as a girl dreaming of lovers she cannot keep. ...

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