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ANCHORS IN THE HARBOR

Bits of dinosaur bones in the dust
on the rain- and wind-ripped hillside.

I've forgotten her name, but remember
every word from her whispering eyes.

Do birds practice flying in secret?
Tumbling, then stumbling up, jumping on wind?

There are anchors in the harbor sand.
The crew sings nautical reels.

TV antennae in a dead city
among steeples and tattered billboards.

      — J.B. Mulligan