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83 Bellingham’s Favorite Son Night in town is framed by the black hole of my hood. The surviving solar ring to my face’s eclipsing moon. The bowl my beard floats in. The reason owls don’t sing. I see the State Street drunks through the hollow of a tree. Tell them, “Tonight I can’t spare a thing.” The dealers on Railroad follow cop cars with curses, but the whores just stare. Down the block I still get peanuts for free. The college kids pay for the locals’ perks. Wall guitars hang, missing strings like teeth, and I fix them. It never feels like work. When GP mercury kills all of us will neon still burn? You all know I’ve tried to leave, but water cannot haul a bus. I am brought back by each winter’s high tide, slumped over on the beach, wondering how much tighter I could have clung to the bow. ...

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