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64 The Dock I am able to find the dock only at night, the dark sheet of the wind caught against me, the cries of invisible gulls drifting in from that continent of water. It isn’t hard to stand at the edge without fear, knowing that the piles are strong and deep, that the rotting planks have all been carefully replaced. But what are those dark shapes that lie far out on the surface under the moon? Who is it that sometimes waits like a tree hulking in the wind, barring my exit until dawn? The small boats return as empty as the answers I have tried. Do the answers lie far out and at the bottom? Or do they slide along the surface like eels? The fishermen may know, their eyes sealed open like fish, calling out to me to help them secure, their voices sudden blasts of memory in the long silence of water, their hands still red with working in the salty cold. I give them a lift up with hands still warm from pockets, and join them as they waken to the land and sunlight. But they talk among themselves, voices too hoarse from the long night for me to understand. ...

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