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Even cold-blooded need sunbeams:
sunbathing mackerel,
sun-seeking shrimp.
As serene as the sunfire feels, the sea is
under a faraway flame.
Even November sun has its share
of beach spectators,
but none can remain for long on the edges
of this autumnal castle in the sky.
The sunlight that striped the dunes this morning
has faded.
The blue-hour thickens
until I can see only my fingers.
Thickens more, until I, too, vanish –
erased as completely as the traces 
I left on this sand.
On the crest of the last, I hear a barquentine –
A ship blows its foghorn in a long nocturne
as I lift my hand to all cold-blooded
for a “Good night!”