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Sunny and clear but cold as shit,
the bridge is up and cars wait with no choice but to be patient. The giant
construction crane is a rafter to the sky, it too unmoving, everything silent,
no jet drone of Sea-Tac approach, no Lake Union float plane lift-off, that
cyclist is coasting quiet as her shadow. Gutter puddles are iced over, road
gravel immobile, litter trapped like flypaper, Seattle gets a taste of absolute
zero. I move through it with statue hands, cold and not my own. On the boat,
the hoses are frozen but there's just enough liquid water left in the machine
for Bill's first cup of coffee. It will take a lot of heat to melt this day.
Is it any coincidence that welds look like scars, healing the split steel
of a ship's skin? The sun is so warm on my arm that I jerk the rod away afraid
I've caught fire. The portholes are pinholes, I'm in a camera, reordering
rust and recording ghosts aboard the
kalakala. |
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