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On Sauvie Island
by Andrew MacArthur

You really donít know what to say. We hes-
itate to start back toward my car. Your poise
against the access slough is plain distress
at my resolve. A silence which employs
a prolonged waiting-out straight through the noise
of sanctuary geese on Sauvie Island.
Behind your back, like outsize bath-tub toys,
louring canalboats glide by. On the high land
protected deer graze fearlessly. And my hand
is reaching over to return your key.
Iíve known you only with my bodyís eyes and
can sense a language always closed to me.
So, do the blind care if the Braille engravings tip
first up or down, left or right? Your fingers slip.











 


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