Ledgers in file cabinets, receipt books yellow with age. Letters on thin blue aerogrammes. In 1977, what was the cost of a bottle of ink, a ream of paper, a brush? a one-way plane ticket? a winter coat? Starlings make dark liquid swirls across the skyline, and then begin again— each speck an accumulation of years, each shimmering gap the sum of things we packed into our pockets, our carry-ons, our check-ins. In the playground, the children find all manner of things in the sand: blue plastic hair comb, bent spoon, marble with a dusky orange flame still trapped inside. The moon gleams and the tide tugs gently at each boat’s anchor line.

What is the character for life pausing
at the threshold, wondering who will signal
when it’s time to slip out of the harbor?


In response to Via Negativa: Winter Harbor.

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