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after Walker Evanss
 Liberte: Promenade Deck, Port Forward, 1958
   To walk out on the deck of a liner
   steaming toward some far-north capital
   as if when we arrive, when we're welcomed
   by every ghost who hangs around
   performing eloquent arabesques
   to a music we'd be tempted to say
   must be sacred, the light will be
   more familiar than expected, and more
   indescribable. Solitude isn't
   so much what we want as it is
   what we can't avoid. We want to
   speak of an Irish town by the Bandon
   and its museum with a giant's boots
   behind glass, having read how he used to
   walk Kinsale's narrow streets late at night
   so as not to be seen for free. Some
   exiles are self-imposed, and legend.
   Others are accomplished with face paint
   garish enough to insist on laughter
   and the emptiness of piling in
   to tiny cars with silly horns that sound
   like nothing so much as envy
   or wind whistling through a ruined heart,
   the tune one that could remind us all
   no matter how far north we might sail
   the world we've sailed is always with us.
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Title Annotation:poetry
Author:Looney, George
Article Type:Poem
Date:Sep 22, 2019
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