creative ramblings & reverie

Saturday, March 26, 2011


Across the harbor is the birthplace of the stillborn king.  Georgia sees it perfectly, with a blindwoman’s second sight.  She’s sitting where the natives fish, at dusk.  Tasting the Whaler’s rum, rough-edged, the lime.

We archaeologists are dangerous, she thinks.  Reanimating warriors, calling swimmers out.  Stirring old desires irretrievably.

The nightwatcher’s waiting.  Her signal.  Comes.


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