Jan/Feb 2019 • Vol. XLI No. 1 PoetryJanuary 2, 2019 |


Walking at night, I read the house numbers on those porches lit like vacant stairwells hung along the mill’s lip, flights of metal steps any type of weather might fall through, and this gentle litany tolls the schedule of departing ferries that take us from island to city and back again — 1210, 1245 — ferries where the whales bloom a black and white skirt in our wake, ferries we drive our big cars onto because now we can go anywhere, ferries that took the people from the clear shore of their lives to the internment camps on the mainland because nothing could be more dangerous than living among each other where voices unnetted and rising in complaint are a flock of birds that can make no song but that one which we sing together.

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