Ray Templeton www.ellisisland.org   Eight days smoke and salt and you spill into a fractured morning. New light pressing, old tongues dislocated.  A day’s waiting, so near you could almost run into the west, arms waving.   Impatient pixels show your replies, our last record. Every question takes you that bit closer, as you deny polygamy, anarchy deformity, insanity, prove that you have more than fifty dollars.   Ashore, unhuddled, your skin fitting, you vanish – melt into the pot.

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