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. Postcard otters in a store  
             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.