one hull per trip, a frantic
abalone, she tells me
crows and monkeys love peaches.
I work on every thing at once
the sky makes the earth quiet--
that's our fear imploding--
a kicked-on generator, his head inside
bitten in the black like
a bag of glass eels
offering an Indian word, father
and I chatting in the tunnel's
limit. This on America, an island
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