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The Tourists


by stephen hastings-king


They acquire him in a bar that is famous for its shipwrecks.


 
His eyes are blue marbles. 

 


Drinks are a continuous stream. 

 


The elaborate stories he tells alter them warp and weft.

 


They disclose all their secrets.

 


In the air the sideband voices of amateur radio operators is a fluttering electronic chorus.

 


They have always known him.

 


They walk with him past fishing boats that hang in the air.

 


He leads them to the water, to a labyrinth and an azure plane.

 


The dissolving of the waves is a laugh track.

 


He weaves them into the environment. 

 


They have always been here.



He is the warp and weft. 

 


They float among the pillars beneath the docks. 

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