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18 November 2008 @ 01:57 pm
Poem: Tightly Wrapped  
Summer, and days like a deep acoustic guitar.
Always, and hugging the roasted strip of tar is
our house, dressed in weather-worn siding
among alike Nantucket houses, hiding.
We’d come home, burnt with sand-wind and salt
and curl beneath the attic ceiling’s vault.
Our room was framed with a rickety set of stairs
that lead to the roof, and the Widow’s Walk that sat there.
And though we were young, and our mothers forbade us
we’d brave the stairs at night nonetheless.
To drag up blankets, to wrap our skinny shoulders,
to lean against spindly railings, to huddle closer.
And so we’d stare, the sand-wind grown cold
and tugging at our pajamas, trying to grab hold
to something like the view that spread below.
The dark around us, that always seemed to grow
so close to the ocean, and the lights from town
like particles of sand carelessly scattered, thrown
and shifting in the distance on the waves.
This, we thought, was something that could save us.