Behind our ferry, the wake

of two waves meet, high five,

dissolve into each other


like my head into

your shoulder. For nine

years, I have spoken to you


with no words. Today, we are

a forest of limbs. A seagull

bobs in the migration


lapping inland, where rustic

homes dot the shore. An urge

to throw my shoes out


the window and into the bay

runs through me as the ferry cuts

a white clearing through azure.


Scattering streaks of sun

kiss our thirsty skin. The seagull dives

and carries away a gift


of the dead towards dry sand.

We are emptied

by the day echoing across


the bay, silver

and wordless.




Photo By: Ross Pollack