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For years we knew only their narrow necks,
upright sleepers perched against our benzine sea,
a carbonized wilderness of steel in a climb
above a dockside sweaty with grease,
the grain terminal, the timber terminal,
stacks of bulk cargo, salt …


A colt was tied to a post.
It was the color of smoke.
The dark afforded no stain.

I was the only visible thing,
a pale criminal motion
in the city’s invisibilities.

My grainy wrists creaked,
squealed as if bloodless.…