Again, the docks. Again, the docks crack the emptiness of
the river, as if the sky was hit by something little on the way
and stars begin to circle overhead like cartoon boats in a
stunning regatta. Not a boat is tied up to these docks as yet.
They're like a crossword puzzle waiting for some words to
people them. But as sure as if you build it, boats will come.
One will sound like some jet engine hydroplaning on the
water, a cigarette boat. Rum Runner, Rum Runner, going faster miles an hour.
It smuggles noise into the silence. In the summer, everyone
is drinking it until inebriation is descending like the embers falling to the
beach
from fireworks I saw once in Ogunquit, paid for by George
Bush the First, who ran his cigarette boat out from Walker Point that summer.
The sea knows how to deal with big bangs though. Being
silence, waves come crashing to the shore to know they are the silence.
That will shut them up. And in the lucid undertow of mind, the
ocean knows the sea.
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