There's an empty lot next door where the figs grow. There's the abandoned house with square shutters and the stray cats that loft signals into night's starless dome. There's the old heads up on 16th who tell time by seasons and think life--well--that life's been fair enough. To think ! it might've been me growing tobacco on this land, or selling the oysters . . . the very oysters we shipped by the barrel back to Europe. By the barrel . . . O to dream.
hardy
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