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You came up over the last dune
in the caravan,
wind smacking the canvas,
and there was the sea.
You felt refreshed,
like there was no longer any trace
left of the circus.
All the paint had washed off
in the gradual rain,
and the two of you were now
truly nomads in the caravan,
not clowns or high-wire artists.
You then always got that
coming-upon-the-sea feeling
when you steered your caravan
into the crowded streets of cities,
down to low-lit districts
where faces doubled
by cobras of shadow
look up from their angst and anger.
Because that sea-feeling held,
when you came to town
you brought a gentle wind,
touching the screens;
seeming to question the watchers
on their stoops.
A questioning wind that leads out