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R. T. Castleberry
In this small, blue room—
clenched by melancholy,
I sit the night, guarding carnival goods,
the knife thrower’s serrated blades.
Two buskers walk a tune,
words muffled by the wave’s insistence.
A mathematical conceit of
stars burning to earth enriches
water’s lap against pier beams,
a night sailor’s crossing.
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