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surfacing breathless
in the peaceful domain
from the tunnel like dogs
a sax's sporadic coughs of sound
beneath these great figs spread their roots
like fingers digging into sand or dirt
or a bridge sinking into memory
now the cars come out
green water sloshes -
a bell rings suddenly
in alarm
then stops
another grumble
Jazz
you stencilled it on the page
i saw eternity written on the floor in chalk
as the train plummeted towards the city
the lines looped, joining like belts
my buckled notes & letters
Cars spluttering
shade & sunlight wavering
in the astonished green water
like your words
& Jazz
domains of sound
a moving ferry
& someone walking past.
(for Bruce Beaver)
David Prater is a Melbourne-based writer. His work has been published in «Hermes», «Voiceworks», «New England Review» and «Cordite». He is currently writing a novel about the invention of marzipan.
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