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2 O’Clock in the Morning, Martha’s Vineyard


The clock at the Old Whaling Church strikes.  Edgartown receives a fresh hour.  I am an insomniac living in a garret, existing on tangerines and peanut butter.  On Sundays I penny whistle the Irish National Anthem.  Tonight a nor’easter threatens.  The tourists have fled.  I remember maples turning red, the burnt smell of dying leaves.  Acorns on the scarlet oak.  The geese fly south, feathering toward memory lakes over scraps of dialogue on Main Street.  The bathroom light comforts me as the wind kicks up.  Grape vines grow wild in the Old Burial Ground—they entwine headstones, dangle fruit off marble and stone.




Kirby Wright