Stockade, July Service
by David Allen

Trains slide on heat
his brow, the thoughts
of his children and nights
in the brig.
 
He discovers the sea
one hugged by stripes
tossed him from
to clear rails in the slope
of a weed cutter.
 
The peak and trough
of the cutter's swing
reflect the stained handle,
the six miles of deep
water in his hands.

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