6. The Island
Walking through the photographs
that tourists were taking,
we crossed the bridge
to the ticking sound of my friend’s bike.
The bleak sun’s presence in the sky
was intrusive and brief—
nothing but a changeover cue.
My 16-millimeter memory
is worn and torn and spliced,
but the sound track with his voice
and with the music we loved
is still there.
Now that he’s gone, I sometimes dream
of this whole island drifting off into the sea,
independent of the city’s mainland
like it always has been.