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64 Horse Drawn Boat I went to buy postcards for my aunt who waited under a faux-fur hat at the Esplanade Hotel. The Atlantic was blossoming over the plank jetties and brick, and my head was stuck down my collar, and within it I was writing. The words were trimming themselves from my brain, so I couldn’t focus or see if any of the shops I was passing were still even open. But what I was writing wasn’t about looking for postcards on a winter evening in Wales. It wasn’t about the trip I was taking, or the language I was hearing, or the wind, or aunts in faux-fur hats. That wouldn’t come until later. The writing was about how I dreamed you in a boat drawn by horses. And what steel flippers were their new shoes, eight legs spinning solemn and forbidden on an uncut sea? They heaved and steamed as if it were morning, except there was no sun. Fog was the only thing to lighten you. 65 And weren’t you always afraid of large mammals? And why did you switch your hair? But I couldn’t ask any of these questions. The horses had swum away. ...

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