No landing
in sight, I walk
over the Atlantic ocean.

Her voice carries
down row after silent row of houses.

We talk about communism, flowers,
cooking, how it is that people
are thrown away like litter,
end up in the water.

We always end up in the water.

The phone dies, cuts out.
I walk through town,
spatially aware of warping.

The streets ricochet, storefronts dim
and reflecting our pacing.

“We decided to close early for the day,”

the curling page taped to the door
at the café where I used to work.

Without anchor, walking home
has the same motion
as a journey outward:

I can feel the long stretch,
the people I carry.

“There is an antidote to our fear,”
says the sodden, yellowing newspaper
at my feet.