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Post Road Magazine #32

Port of Miami, from the MacArthur Causeway

Ricardo Pau-Llosa

It is the sea that is misplaced—
nervous bulk a cupped palm
can sweep into a glitter of dust.
On it the heaviest angles of rust
rise, laden. The hidden helm
lurks its screens and satellites

past rigging and chain, the ancient
mask of a familiar mystery.
Buoyancy is number's boring miracle,
the fruit of tangled sums and symbols
Greek with decimals. Would infinity
be as uncapped, we'd put a dent

in useless chatter about divine
conditions. The barge passes liners
loading cities of fat tourists
with boarding drinks in hand. The dizziest
outshout the tugging machinery
that likewise baffles the eye's supine

reasoning. In the Cave, even light
is shadow that mauls as it apes its origins.
Laws we must dive for. All else is ripple
and spray. A tipsy Cleopatra, visible
from here, points in spills to the towering
barge fading out of sight.

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