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FRANCISCO MARQUEZ PROVINCETOWN Fixed at sunset, a wooden blue shack as if with it a million scenes of shipwrecks, not black rock or islands of fog rising individual in a barrenness of salt. It is not that it was not beautiful, but that I tried to conjure its momentous light, eternal that is inside the ordinary, and couldn’t. If I look backwards, the mysteries forming themselves in darkness, I remember the heaviness of heat. A soporific wave lifting from concrete. There was more a strangeness in the dark square of water lifting from a mallard having submerged, like the sun into water, than there was to that wooden place. But to think of it in exile, in its solitude of water, to see it turn significant against what could destroy it, it was then I saw myself becoming it.
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