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11 The Romance of Bait Domingo listens to the ebb of waters, bends close to the ocean, and knows his boat must go miles past the jetty into deeper waters. He holds his jaw up to the sun, his shoulders so much like the Pacific bearing up the dome of his skull, a head drifting like a lost buoy. The air is salt. The gulls clack on the docks, waiting for fisherman to neglect their bait. He sets two wicker pails to dangle on stiff bamboo and shoulders his crux filled with shrimp, their transparent skins. There is earth inside them. The bait merchants kept the baskets of crustaceans on the dirt floor, making each shell-curl something from a buried dream. The gulls descend like a curtain closing for evening. Domingo covers the mouths of the baskets with plastic flaps to guard the bait. The shrimp are soft and frail, like his ear listening to Maria Elena breathe in her sleep. ...

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