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The ground hums
like the casing of an old machine.
My eyes are lightships.
A cedar branch egests a gull
as I walk towards the pier.

Ghostship voice
thin as prayer.
Two hundred feet of keel
over knotted ice,
your words still palpable
as hair on my face
or the dry goods cargo
spilling into dark Atlantic.

The viaduct's metal nest
of crossbar tangles
where you parked your bike
and climbed
to see the outhouse
plush and summer ripe
against the bread coloured road.

These, the mountains
you said you'd climb some day,
the snowy patellae
unreachable then as the wind,
the polaris hidden deep
within the shadows of your face.


Your voice pooled into a lake
and on the silty bed we saw it
amongst the mouths of bottom feeders.
There, you meant to wait.
But before I left
I glimpsed the quartz and amber
annexed by my breath,
eyes like centuries
your limbs growing silent as the trees.

Back towards the town lit up
like a gas powered time-machine.
Above me, the silent nod of a star,
below, the stuttering clap
of a storm window shutting.

      — Aidan Tynan