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Two Poems by Erica Funkhouser The Blue in Beets The blue in beets comes and goes sometimes a shadow of the weeds where beets grew or of their towering leaves other times a suggestion of what the beets might have been: blue birds blue stones blue fish blue whales blue water. if blue isn't here it's there if it's not there it's coming if you have just seen it it will back if you have never seen it you will. Fishing for Flounder Whether or not flounder prowl the floor of Blue Hill Bay we do not know for sure, by we lower our knobs of salted pork on fishhooks as if to ask. Is it these rocks over which their flat white stomachs, like the hands of the blind, brush in search of sustenance, trusting the topography to take them where delicious crab crawl? Is it here their ocean-purple eyes gaze at the world up as down, studying its inversions in depth? We think the flounder must possess some horizontal wisdom-- the stability of those who never leap, who stick to the bottom of life's deep pools. A bit dull, perhaps, with their detailed knowledge of the few bleak centimeters beneath their gills, but extraordinarily informed about the dark motions whose polished surface is all we see.