by Barry Basden

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The only thing I know of Nantucket
is that there once was a man from there.

But the world’s not just a limerick, surely,
though it often seems like one—vulgar and
greedy. Nor is it even a Wyeth painting
of golden grasses and Victorian rooftops
peeking over a hill in some empty landscape.

No, what precisely it is eludes me, ineffable
despite my best efforts. But let me cavort
with the gods for an afternoon. Then, I

could imagine heaven and make it real, with
a deserted seashore, perhaps, and a cove
filled with gulls and sandpipers, waves
and wind. Yes, that should be plenty enough

sustenance for my eternity.

Barry Basden lives in the Texas hill country. He writes mostly short pieces. Some have been published in various online venues. Some have not. He also edits the Camroc Press Review , but hates to publish his own work there. He’s such a pushover.

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