Night Ferry

The ferry sets off

toward neon splashed across the harbour.

Below, the engines’

muted thunder.

By the rail, soft wash

whispering beside the hull.

Some travelers lean out, gazing

as at strange figures in a cave.

Swells on the dark sea frighten.

The small sleepy ferry lifts and falls,

bearing us over this harbour named for victory.

So quiet, the night. Will the blazing

fireworks return?

Glimmer from both shores

casts its dream-colored net across our faces.

Those neons dapple on the sea

like red stamps in ancient books,

like the lost star I loved there,

old whiffs of fireworks, disgrace

sharp as ever. Tonight,

nearing the other shore,

the sailors’ faces seem lit with expectation.

Each trip, nameless passengers touch and jostle.

As far as the eye can reach,

the far shore glitters,

a shaken flame, the stars

that wink from childhood.

The weary may rest awhile on the lower deck.

This small ferry docks

at the edge of the imagined.