I grasp for your warm hand as the crowd 
             throngs the gangway

but you died years ago and took your hands  
             into the red-heart sun. 

Water disrupts skyline edges. In a reflected city  
             windows collapse. 

Spokes of bridges are broken bicycles  
             abandoned against sky.

Dogs strain on leashes pulling their masters to  
             the last concrete pier.

Far hills have eyes. In a store postcard otters   
             turn to stare at me.

The old clerk changes my Andy Jackson bill 
             into pieces of bloody silver.

On the next ferry I will place buffalo nickels  
             over my open eyes.