Do I dare ask? Did I
fall asleep on the ferry again?

Am I back where I began
before the night started?

How do I respond
to the other side?

Does a face filled
with anticipation

of finally arriving
look the same as one

harboring

the pain of having to say
good-bye again? Were we

coming or going?
If I ask the quarter moon

that carves out its place
in the backdrop

to another evening,
will I get an answer

I can sip from forever?
Are those rocks

down there? Sunken
ships? A subway train car?

The wedding ring I forgot
to claim, or one made of brass?

If I jump
in, who will hold

my black parka? If I see
purples and greens flash beneath,

is it a reflection
of the sky’s eruption

into the Northern Lights,
or a memory

I cannot erase
with any amount of kneading?

Which island? Who owns

this lighthouse? That bucket
of red and black pebbles?

The pearls of a thousand
oysters buried deep within?

The land? Is this time spent

in the waiting room
more a wading through?

Who was it who said
answers are overrated?

Do you have her number?
What if I were to look

into your eyes and respond:
the color of water.