Nora Creina

I open the gate
thread between shacks
shipwrecked in ti tree.
Craypots tumbleweed against sheds
blown out of whack.
Faces mapped by weather
watch from doorways
do not know me, disappear.
 
Nothing escapes the salt.
It is on my tongue
ulcers iron roofs with rust
corrodes fittings on this boat
careened among weeds
a paint brush hard and dry
stuck to the hull
still stinking of fish.
 
Guarded by rocks from a Chinese scroll
a girl on the beach casts into the tide
smells the city on me, turns away
watches the sun shin down her line.
 
I drag the gate shut
along its arc worn deep in stone.
There are no eyes.
Already I was never here.