Night Walk

Boats slip into the harbor.
At one end of the dock, we walk
through a makeshift arch festooned
with flags, left over from the last
festival. Pretend it is a portal
to another time: choose one,
before this quiet flowers
into a battering ram.
I dont know where
you’ll wind up,
I don’t know
where I am.


In response to small stone (111).

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