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Sonnet On Lake Union
The dock slips and knocks against the pier
while the tide’s lip knees the boats and metal stays
ping masts. I’m running along the wharf-houses.
The planks once led into long, lit rooms
where sail makers sewed the sails and fixed
Sheet lines, bent over the little hooks
and cleats. Now software geeks move in
for the view and the old wood, paint scraped.
My city, once dim and slow, felt adrift
in mist. Now I’m running past holograms
set amidst the cedar-wrapped houseboats.
I hear the bilge at my back and the ropes
Slapping metal grating. Around the lake
I go—more awake—older than before.
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