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Mason

I am here and this island is
as much a mason jar as the
next. A year ago, I sat
on a beach in St. Thomas,
scalding my lungs in Caribbean air,
and now I am here,
watching
the smog of millions of
New York City lungs
blur the glass around me.
But whether I am there or here,
the population of
man-munching ocean depths
grows,
and the only color I
see is a deep harbor gray
settling in like fog
from the collective
sigh of skyscrapers and streetlights
as I peer through the window
trying to see.





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