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A quarterly international literary journal

Tahitian Sunset

/ Poetry /

A thick blue knit tucks over

the edge, over and over

some massless thing

the fishermen cannot see.

They go by busily in boats

and no longer bother with her.

They cluck like hens over thin

chrome tongues palming silver

fish jolting their last instincts.

And posed over the oak belt

pinning the shoals, a man

rocked on his heels, a collared

impatience in the purse of his mouth,

and a girl watching the sky’s Leo

theatre, as slowly the purple mane

wrings into the sea.

He turns back, already in the

air-conditioned puritan

suite, and in her backwards

look, she sees a wives’ tale:

that rondure tip of pure yellow, that

last gasp under darkening aubergine,

the heavy wine-black susurrus

of the drowning sea.


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