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  • Suspect Port
    Brooke Barrasse
    30 Apr 2003

    Purple is what I think of when I see
    Myself surrounded by fish guts and wooden buoys
    And the heart of the ocean was never worn by me,
    But made it through the sixteen St. Louis.

    The toasted sands uphold their grit in sandals
    As the seagulls cackle in the air and the ocean waves crash into where
    The rush of tows and tides are too much to handle
    And my soul blows back and flickers like the wick of a fragile vigil candle.

    I am a little kid like a fish feeling sometimes inside
    With my small hands and arms fogged by salt and sea alarm
    And the sting of the water in my eyes
    Writhing like a toasted golden scale in the fry.

    When it's late, my fingers try and abandon me
    Like the sway of the boat in the dark stepping wrong and missing my mark
    And a kiss on the porch is emotional debris
    And the uneasy moves above a tolerable degree.

    Walking along the lamplights toward the end of the pier
    I see a couple kiss at the end, above the suspect port
    and Ana Maria is there, beside her consort
    But all I can think of is inside of you, so close I can't even hear
    So I scamper back down and stop at the pub and grab a beer.