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32 The Floating Dock At the brim of the day and summer and childhood, there is a floating dock. Its sodden brindled planks tip drowsily, rocking the kids who crawl then stand then slip back to the molten bowl of silver, an ocean scaled numb-blue and rose. Its old glow fills the gullies of the boys’ backs and rounds the girls’ hips and flashing arms as they slap and shove each other off. Beauty’s precipice is cruel. One boy hangs from the side, pulling seaweed slick as his sister’s hair. The tallest girl dives open-eyed, spots fish and comes up calling. More jump wildly, overeager, laughing to follow as a flock of seagulls chips and scatters out like iron filings. A powerboat opens its groan. Do they know? This porous world will grow more so. ...

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