A ferry crossing holds two people at the distance between a sleeve and a hand, ending at the pier without explaining the release.
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The ferry leans. You catch my sleeve, not my hand. The paper bag settles between our shoes. At the pier, you let go first.
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A quiet urban poem about a blue-lit fourth-floor window, an unspoken signal and the small reassurance of staying visible.
A closing signal poem about rain in the wires, imperfect messages and knowing that a human answer travelled.
A walking poem about taking the long way round, deleting a message and allowing one remaining word to cross.
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