ON THE ISLAND This guy drinks a lot and rides his legs like the chop and splash of a boat. Days, he runs the island ferry. Knee-deep in snow late at night, he sways to the drunken tide in his gut, stumbles every time he steps. Stopped still, he looks out over the ice and water. He makes a strange human waver there in the dead perfect snow, tipping the bottle high, pointing the brandy in a straight line to the moon.
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