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A Stone from Fundy You, dear, and I, and the tide shall flow through the Fundy gate with the bladder-wrack. On Hopewell’s strand the moon shape’s still what it always is. I scrawl moon shapes in quartz, in shale— long oblongs, crack eccentric fish-lines in pale slate (I and the tide together). Can only the moon with her white, salt gaze myopic with steam, with bladder-wrack, decipher? The soft waves suck. The days slip by. Hold out your hand. Here is a small stone. The Poetry of M. Travis Lane / 7 ...

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